The Lily and the Wolf
by Philippa Somerville
Summary: The Doctor and Donna Noble find things have gone terribly wrong in the history of France. Using a new setting on the chameleon arch, they attempt to fix the problem by journeying deep into the past, where they encounter an unexpected and familiar face.
1. Chapter 1: The Problem and the Plan

**Chapter 1: The Problem and the Plan**

Author's Note: Throughout this story I have indicated section breaks within chapters by two bold-faced words.

"**Well, this **can't be right." Donna Noble surveyed the scene in front of her with a mixture of impatience and mild glee. His terrible driving had landed them in the wrong place or time—again—and she wasn't going to let him hear the end of it. "Oi, spaceman!"

"I'm coming, Donna." He emerged from the TARDIS, blinking in the sunlight, his eyes briefly invisible behind the glare on his lenses.

"You've done it again."

"What?"

"Landed us in the wrong place."

Still blinking, his eyes traveled over the streetscape. "What?"

"Paris, you said. Paris, 2008, you said. 'Donna, you've always wanted to see Paris, I'll show you Paris,' you said. No alarms, no surprises, no aliens, just a weekend in Paris to relax, you said."

"But this is Paris." He looked confused, mouth slightly open, taking in his surroundings.

"Don't be thick. This," she gestured around her "is the Place de la Concorde and that," off to the left, "is the Louvre, but," gesturing to the right up the wide boulevard that stretched away from them, "there's no Arc de Triomphe!"

The Doctor tried not to wince at her mangled pronunciation of the French. Tried. She smacked his arm. "Weeeeell…"

"Don't 'well' me. And that," pointing to a sign on a bus going by, "and that," pointing to a street sign, "and that," indicating an immense banner advertising an exhibit in the Louvre, "are in GERMAN." She spoke no more German than she did French, but she'd recognize an umlaut anywhere.

"Indeed. Well. Let's see what the TARDIS has to say." He turned on his heel and disappeared back into the blue box, his brown coat flapping behind him. He left the door open for her, but she paused for a few moments to contemplate the weird not-Paris before her. Sure, she'd never actually been there, but everyone knew what Paris looked like, didn't they? How many photos had she seen, since childhood? And now, turning a full circle to look at the cityscape visible from the broad plaza on which she stood, she saw more and more differences. No white pimpled domes of Sacre-Coeur on the hill of Montmartre. No Eiffel Tower visible on the other bank of the Seine. And everywhere, German. People speaking German as they passed her. All the signs in German. This was strange. A parallel universe's Paris? But the Doctor had said it was impossible to travel to parallel worlds. He had lost his Rose in one, after all. She shook her head and turned back to the TARDIS, anxious to see what he had discovered.

What she found was a very perplexed Time Lord. He was in his familiar position over the console: brown coat removed, shoulders hunched, skinny frame tense, hair wild, glasses on his nose. "Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

"What have you found? Are we in the wrong universe?"

"No."

"Then what? The wrong time? Before Sacre-Coeur and the Arc and the Tower? But it seemed…modern out there. Like today."

"No, according to the TARDIS we are in Paris, in our universe, in 2008."

"But…"

"Yes, Donna, I know. I'm working on it."

A few minutes later he straightened, but the look on his face gave her no comfort. There was no cry of triumph, no manic grin as he figured it out. Rather, he looked troubled.

"Doctor, what is it?"

"This is our universe. This is 2008. Something has gone wrong in the timeline. Something important has been changed, in the past, leading to a different present."

"When? How?"

"That will take some more work. I'll have to call up the TARDIS's saved files on the history of France in our universe and compare with current records to find the discrepancy."

"I'll just leave you to it, then? Go see if they still make croissants and café in this German Paris?"

"Mmm."

He seemed barely to hear her, but as she opened the door to leave, causing the tell-tale creak of the hinges, his head shot up. "Donna?"

"Yes?"

"Don't wander too far. This place is wrong."

She smiled at him with real affection. "I won't."

**An hour** later she was finishing the last of a hot chocolate in a coffeehouse—no croissants, it turned out, and she had gotten the fish eye from the waitress for trying to order one—when he suddenly appeared, slumping down in the chair opposite her.

"1223."

"What?"

"That's when things start to go wrong. 1223."

"What happened in 1223?"

"The French king at the time, Philip II, died without an heir. He had accomplished a tremendous amount in strengthening the government of France, but without a stable succession, his advances didn't last. France was irreversibly weakened. The dominos start to fall then, and France ends up, much later, being taken over by Germany."

"When? World War I?"

"Donna, France and Germany fought long before the twentieth century. Honestly, don't you study your own history on this planet?"

"Yeah, but I didn't pay attention in history at school. It was boring."

He rolled his eyes. "You're hopeless."

She rolled hers right back. "So, professor, I'm assuming that in the real timeline, Philip didn't die without an heir. He had a son?"

"No, a nephew, but the transition was seamless. The nephew was the son of Philip's sister, and Philip had known for a long time he wasn't going to have children of his own, so he groomed the boy to take over for him. But in this timeline, the sister never married. There is no nephew, and no other obvious heir in Philip's family."

"Wow. So…can we fix it?"

"Weeeellll. It's tricky."

"It always is."

"We need to get an heir produced for Philip. We need to get his sister married, as she should have been."

"What went wrong in this timeline, with her marriage?"

"I can't get much detail out of the records, unfortunately. In the original timeline, Blanche—that's Philip's sister—married the heir of the Earl of Northumberland, in northern England. It was a match that was supposed to box in the kings of England, who were Philip's longtime enemies. Philip and Blanche made the journey to Northumberland together, actually, and the wedding took place at Durham. Predictably, the kings of both Scotland and England were annoyed by this, but the marriage produced two sons. It was an unusual circumstance, but an agreement was made that one son would inherit Northumberland and the other became Philip's heir in France. Apparently both England and Scotland threatened war if they tried to give both territories to one son and thus create a French outpost in northern England."

The Doctor was clearly enjoying giving this lecture but Donna felt the familiar feeling of her eyes glazing over; just like history class at school. "OK, you're going to have to write all this down so I can memorize it. What went wrong in this timeline, then?"

As far as I can tell, something happened on the trip to Northumberland. They went, but came back without Blanche married to Robert—that's the heir. Beyond that, I can't say. I think we'll have to try to time our appearance back then to coincide with the beginning of the trip, try to figure out what went wrong, and fix it."

"So, we go back, dress up in some medieval clothes…and play interstellar matchmakers? How are we going to manage that?"

The Doctor sighed. "I don't think it's going to be enough to be outsiders. We have to enter the story ourselves."

"What does that mean?"

"To try to shape events, from the position of random people who happen to appear at the court, would be too difficult. We need to—well, more specifically, I—need to join in."

"Still not clear, Doctor."

"I'm going to become Philip."

If he expected a squawk of dismay, he didn't get it. Donna sat very still, staring at him, her mind clearly working. Despite himself, he smiled—she really was very quick, his temp from Chiswick.

"OK, Doctor, two things. First, won't that mean there's two Philips? And second, how exactly are you going to convince people that you're the king of France?"

"Unfortunately, we'll have to grab the real Philip and tuck him away in the TARDIS while we work on events, and then return him, with appropriate memories, when we have fixed things."

"Oh, and that should be dead easy, to kidnap the king of France."

"We've managed worse."

"Fine. Putting that aside, I'm presuming you don't look like this man? How ever are you going to manage to replace him?"

"I'll use the chameleon arch."

"What? But you said…you said when you used it when Martha was here…to become John Smith…you said you looked the same. Like yourself, only human."

"There's more than one setting on the chameleon arch, Donna. The time with Martha, the aliens that were chasing us, the Family of Blood, had not seen my face. But they could sense my Time Lord brain and body and essence. So I didn't have to change my appearance, but I had to become human and change my very nature. What I'm talking about now is actually much simpler. There's no way these people will be able to tell I'm a Time Lord, so I can stay a Time Lord, with my brain and everything intact, and just change my body."

"So you'll be you, but just…wearing a mask? Or…a full-body mask."

"Sort of, yes."

"But…your voice? Your memories? Your way of speaking? You're going to have to pass for this man with his friends, family…people who've known him his entire life."

"That's why it's key that we get hold of Philip first. The TARDIS can then use his voice, appearance, and memories as part of the process of remaking me."

"So you'll look like him and sound like him, but you'll still be you?"

"Basically, he and I will co-exist, but my brain will be dominant, so I'll be able to think with my brain even when I'm being him, and switch him off when I need to, which will mostly be when I'm talking to you."

"Yeah, that brings me to another question. How do I fit into this? It's not like I can just pretend to be your sister or something, like in Pompeii. Everyone will know you don't have another sister. So what am I?" Donna eyed him suspiciously. "I'm not going to be some kind of…serving wench or something, I'll have you know!"

He grinned wickedly at her. "You could be my latest mistress. Kings had lots of them, you know."

"Keep dreaming, alien boy," she shot back, not missing a beat.

"Seriously, you could be…part of Blanche's household. A new lady-in-waiting I've given her for the journey to her new home. Or something. We'll figure it out."

"So I'll be speaking French too?"

"A late form of Latin, blending into Old French, yes. Don't worry, the TARDIS will take care of that."

Donna paused, considering, and then looked suddenly alarmed. "What about the plague?"

"The what?"

"The plague. Didn't they have a plague in the dark ages, where we're going?"

"A plague? Do you mean the Black Death?"

"That's the one. Sounds terrible."

"Honestly, Donna, I'm going to make you read several shelves' worth of history books before we go. The Black Death happened more than a hundred years later. And in any case, I'll inoculate us against all the known diseases and infections before we leave the TARDIS."

"All right then."

"So we're agreed?"

"What am I agreeing to? Saving Paris through a ridiculous plan that has almost no chance of working and might end up with me dying of the Black Death?"

He sighed, patiently. "Donna, I told you…"

"Oh, shut it, I'm just pulling your leg. Yes, we're agreed. I'd better go see what the TARDIS has for lady-in-waiting gear."


	2. Chapter 2: The King and the Earl

**Chapter 2: The King and the Earl**

**Donna and** the Doctor stood in a room deep in the TARDIS, staring down at the unconscious figure lying on the bed. The Doctor said, "Well, there he is. Philip II, by the grace of God king of the French." Donna stared at him. "Sorry. That's how he started his decrees. I've been doing some reading." He sighed. "That was easier than we thought it might be, wasn't it?"

It had indeed been unexpectedly simple. The TARDIS had landed in Northumberland in May of 1200. The Doctor had timed their landing to coincide with the journey of the French party from the west coast of England toward Durham. It took a few tries, but eventually they happened upon the substantial train of horses, wagons, and the litters carrying the ladies of the party. It was late afternoon and the French were making camp for the night. Donna and the Doctor had watched from the line of trees as busy figures constructed several immense tents, obviously intended for the king and princess and high-ranking ladies, while other, much smaller tents were pitched around them. Other people began to build fires, clearly preparing to cook an evening meal. As they watched this buzz of activity, the Doctor suddenly grasped Donna's arm and pointed. "There he is! In the blue tunic with the fleur-de-lis on it."

Donna didn't actually know what a fleur-de-lis was, but her eyes followed the Doctor's finger and took in the figure of a man standing with two other men, leaning over a makeshift table that had been set up near one of the large tents. It appeared they were consulting a map, one of the other two men gesturing toward it then indicating a direction on the horizon. The man whom the Doctor had identified as Philip put his hand to his brow to shield his eyes against the low sun as he looked in the direction they had come, then back to where they were going. He nodded, spoke briefly to the men, and then gestured—alarmingly enough—in the direction of Donna and the Doctor, who simultaneously stepped behind neighboring trees. They peeked around to watch as Philip stripped off riding gloves, handed them to one of the men to whom he had been speaking, and walked toward the forest line, rolling his shoulders.

Donna caught the Doctor's eye and hissed, "Is the king of France about to take a walk on his own?"

"It would appear so," he whispered back. "That's…startlingly convenient."

"We'll have to move quickly before they miss him."

"Indeed. Let's see if he actually enters the forest. That'll make it much easier to grab him."

A few moments later, it became clear Philip was headed for the tree line. He was walking with head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, clearly deep in thought and not paying attention to where he was.

Donna felt the Doctor's lips by her ear. "When he enters the forest, you intercept him. The sight of you should be startling enough that I will be able to come up behind him and incapacitate him before he can react."

"Oi!" She whispered back furiously. "Why is the sight of me any more startling than the sight of you?"

The Doctor met her eyes. "A man of his era, seeing a woman in blue jeans and a t-shirt? Yeah, somehow I think you're going to stop him in his tracks more than me."

Donna muttered something that was probably uncomplimentary under her breath but set off in a direction that she would intercept Philip if he kept on his present course. Which he did, coming under the shade of the trees and slowing his pace to account for the new roughness of the terrain under his feet, but still barely looking up. Eventually Donna emerged at one end of a clearing in the trees as Philip arrived at the other. The sudden feel of sun on his skin seemed to make him come aware and he raised his head, and that was when he saw her. He stopped, his eyes locked on her. Donna was struck, simultaneously, by two thoughts. First, the sheer unreality of her life with the Doctor—she was standing in 1200 in northern England having a stare-down with the bloody king of France. And second, the king himself. She wasn't sure what she had expected him to do. What would she have done, suddenly happening upon a man dressed in clothes from eight hundred years in her future? Shrieked, probably. Or laughed. Philip did neither. She supposed it did not suit a king to shriek or laugh very readily. But she hadn't been prepared for his stillness. He stood regarding her without movement and without expression on his face. If nothing else, it gave her the opportunity to look at him. Tall—not quite as tall as the Doctor, but considerably taller than she. Dark hair, closely cropped. Eyes that at this distance appeared to be dark, although whether brown or blue she could not tell. Broad shoulders clothed in a blue tunic with stylized lilies—fleur-de-lis, she supposed—in gold. He wore a leather belt with a sword at his waist. Snug black trousers and high brown boots that went over his knees.

The first word she thought of was "impressive". He wore no crown and did not draw his sword. He was not particularly handsome. He was well-built with broad shoulders but nothing outside of the ordinary. And yet, as he stood there, silently contemplating her, he was indeed impressive. It may have been the self-possession, the stillness, the hint of curiosity in his eyes, or the lack of fear there.

Her mind began to race. What did one say in such a situation? She settled for the blindingly obvious. "Hello, your majesty."

His mouth quirked slightly. "It would appear you have the advantage of me."

She did not know what to say to that. After a moment, he continued. "The question is, are you a vision or a dream? But I have to conclude, since you are wearing clothing I have never seen before, you are unlikely to be a dream that originated in my head. So, a vision? Are you an angel? Or, given the color of your hair, a demon?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "My mother would say a demon, that is certain." He smiled in return, and she decided to dare a question. "What is the king of France doing alone in a forest?"

He shook his head. "I must say, you are a disappointing demon if you cannot ascertain that on your own." She made a small movement with her shoulders and he seemed to take this as his cue to answer her question. "My sister, Blanche, is to be married in a week's time to the heir of Lord Edward of Northumberland. We will arrive in Durham tomorrow."

"That explains why you are travelling in northern England. It does not explain why you are here, in the forest, unaccompanied. Where are your gentlemen, my lord?" She noticed, in passing, that the TARDIS seemed to be smoothing out her speech for her, making her sound more formal, less like a Londoner, even to her own ears.

Philip, presumably, heard a version of Old French that he could comprehend perfectly. He nodded slowly at her question. "Even a king likes to be alone at times, my lady."

"I am surprised they let you walk alone in a place such as this. Have they no concern for your safety?"

"They have learned, from long experience, that on certain matters I am inflexible. I have been king of France for twenty years this autumn."

"And as king of France, have you the right to risk your own life in such a way? Do your people not rely on your continued good health and long life?"

His eyebrows lifted. "Is my life at risk, in this peaceful clearing, talking to you, my lady? Do you wish me ill? Are you…"

A dark shape appeared suddenly behind Philip and reached hands around to press to his temples. The king's low voice ended suddenly and he slumped into the waiting arms of the Doctor, who stood behind him. "Brilliant work, Donna," the Doctor exclaimed. "Let's get him back to the TARDIS."

Donna paused for a moment, looking down at the inert form of the king. She was, of course, pleased that the first part of their plan had gone so swimmingly. But she felt a twinge of regret, too, as she had enjoyed it, that brief moment of speaking to him, the steady gaze with which he had regarded her, this strange creature, this possible demon standing before him. She looked up and found the Doctor watching her. "A remarkable man, I think, don't you, Donna?" She smiled at him but made no comment, and together they dragged the body of the king of France back to the Doctor's ship.

**Riding in** a litter, Donna decided, was overrated. It looked so comfortable, strewn with silks and pillows, surrounded by curtains shutting out the commotion of the traveling party around them, a little platform on which to recline as it was carried along or was loaded into a horse-drawn contraption for longer journeys. But really, it wasn't. It dipped and jolted and generally made her feel vaguely ill. Nonetheless, it had the advantage of giving her time to think. Blanche, the princess of France, was asleep across from her, and the other lady-in-waiting dozed as well. How exactly the Doctor had convinced Blanche to accept Donna as the newest companion of her travels was a mystery. The Doctor had only waved his hand airily when Donna had hissed the question to him. And so here she was. Blanche proved pleasant enough; she resembled her brother physically, with dark hair and dark blue eyes. She had prattled on happily to Donna about her upcoming wedding when she wasn't sleeping. But she seemed, at least on first acquaintance, to lack Philip's depth and intrigue. That still watchfulness that had struck Donna in the forest, the profound intelligence behind his calm eyes, was not present here. Not that Donna had had much opportunity to explore the man's depth, before the Doctor put him in some sort of stasis back on the TARDIS.

The Doctor. Who now looked like Philip and rode a horse alongside the litter. If Donna peered through the curtains she could see his figure not ten feet away. It was so bizarre and…yes, upsetting, to see the Doctor in this new form. The chameleon arch transformation had been a distressing thing to witness; the Doctor's agonized screams were still clearly audible if she thought about it. Which she tried not to do. And then he had risen from where he had collapsed behind the console of the TARDIS, and he had looked like Philip. Even though she knew it was coming, she had still been frozen in fear when it actually happened. "Donna, it's still me," were his first words, as he clearly sensed her terror despite his own lingering pain.

And now, it was disconcerting, how he could simply switch back and forth from speaking like the Doctor to speaking like Philip. He had been chatting privately with Donna, popping his p's and making amused noises in the back of his throat, and then a moment later, when a French courtier approached, he had been speaking in the cadences of the king. Donna knew she should be thrilled with how well the plan was progressing, but she was not. She was nervous and unsettled. She settled back on the cushions behind her, resolutely closed her eyes, and tried her best to imitate the slumber of the princess of France.

If Donna was edgy and full of misgivings, the Doctor was pleased as punch as he rode his horse aside her litter. Yes, the chameleon arch was always painful, and yes, Donna had been visibly shocked to see his new form. But still, the ease with which they had made the switch was gratifying. He thought of Philip, in stasis back in the TARDIS. The clever girl would keep the king's body nourished and his muscles from atrophying for the entire time he was unconscious—and who knew how long that would be? The Doctor smiled with affection at the thought of his ship. He then dwelt on the effortlessness with which he had introduced Donna into Blanche's entourage. His smile widened as he thought how horrified Donna would be to know that he had told Blanche that Donna was "a woman I currently fancy." Ha! He almost laughed aloud but restrained himself. He was a king now, after all. What was striking was how Blanche had taken the news. She had merely nodded with a complete lack of interest and then accepted Donna without batting an eyelash. Different times, he supposed. Philip was unmarried at this moment, so that probably helped…although maybe it didn't really matter even then. Best not to mention that to Donna either, most likely.

The Doctor's reverie was interrupted by the pounding approach of a horse and rider; it was the scout who had been sent ahead to look over the approach to Durham. "My lord, the city is not far distant and the celebrations to welcome you are prepared."

Right. "Wake the princess." Time to introduce Blanche to her soon-to-be-husband and get French history back on track.

**Donna pondered** the potential distance between fathers and sons. They stood in the courtyard of the castle at Durham. It was a magnificently positioned town, on a high bluff overlooking a river. The River Wear, Blanche had told her, as they crossed it on an impressively sturdy stone bridge. Since being wakened, Blanche had been visibly on edge and had filled the final hour of their journey with nervous chatter. The great cathedral of Durham was dedicated to Saint Cuthbert. She had prayed to the saint on numerous occasions to bless her forthcoming marriage. And now they were here, on a chilly day of weak sunshine, facing the welcoming committee, which consisted mainly of Edward, the earl of Northumberland, and his son Robert, the prospective bridegroom. Appraising the younger man, Donna thought that at least on first viewing it seemed Blanche was on to a good thing. A handsome face with blond hair, impressive height and breadth of shoulders, and—perhaps more importantly—an open smile and tangible warmth in his brown eyes. He had sprung forward after greeting Philip to bow deeply before his new bride, who had blushed and curtsied in return. Donna, also bent in a curtsy behind the princess, saw the young man take Blanche's hand and raise her to standing, murmuring words of welcome that made her smile.

In contrast, the earl stood aloof from the moment, staring coldly at his son's interaction with his future wife. Perhaps he had once been handsome too, but he bore an air of discontent and neglect that had taken a toll on his appearance. His hair was grey, which was to be expected at his age, but also hung too long and was grizzled and untended. He wore an unkempt beard and his clothes seemed equally haphazard. His teeth, Donna noticed, were truly regrettable. He turned suddenly and spoke to Philip. "The English king is enraged over this match."

Philip—the Doctor—turned from what appeared to be an unusually interested examination of Robert and gave the earl a small smile. It really was eerie, Donna thought, to see the man she had met in the forest standing here before her, although she knew it was the Doctor. He spoke quietly, "Does that distress you, my lord?"

The earl gave a short laugh. "Not in the least. Our bishop has scuttled down to London to keep John apprised, just as I expected. He's a Frenchman too, you know, our bishop—although he is John's man through and through."

"Ah, well. A number of my countrymen have made the unwise choice to support your king, despite his many failings. You are wiser than they, my lord."

The earl snorted, then turned to his son, who still held Blanche's hand in his. "Robert!"

"Yes, father?" The young man turned his gaze. Donna could not help but notice wariness in his eyes.

"Where the devil is Rosalind?"

"I'm sure she will be here shortly, father. She had been out on the hunt and wished to prepare herself…to put on her best appearance."

The earl gave another snort. "That should not be excessively time-consuming."

A wave of anger, quickly controlled, crossed Robert's face, but not before both Donna and the Doctor noticed it. Robert turned to Blanche and spoke to her, but pitched his voice so that it carried for all to hear, "My sister—and soon yours, my dear—is a girl of uncommon talents. But I fear punctuality is not among them."

"Social graces are not among them either," the earl added in an undertone, with a nasty edge to his voice.

At that moment a door slammed at the other end of the courtyard and a young woman emerged. Donna's eyes were drawn to her immediately, not for her beauty, although she had a fresh prettiness, but rather for the look of amused curiosity on her face as she approached them, her amber eyes fixed on Robert. She was dressed far more simply than Blanche, or her brother, or than Donna herself for that matter. Her blue dress seemed not to be silk or any particularly fine material, and she wore no elaborate veil as the princess did. Rather, her golden brown hair was dressed simply in a long braid that had been coiled at the back of her head. Her step was brisk and she seemed deliberately to avoid greeting her father, coming to stand instead at the side of her brother. Once they were next to each other their physical resemblance was thrown into focus. They looked like each other, but not at all like their father. Robert smiled—no, grinned—down at her with obvious affection and then turned again to Blanche.

"My lady Blanche, this is my sister, Rosalind."

The two young women exchanged curtsies and then Blanche began to speak to the newcomer, stretching her hand out toward her in greeting. Donna did not hear what was said, however, distracted as she was by a strangled intake of breath from her other side. She turned to find the Doctor had backed away from his original place, leaning heavily against his horse's side. All the sanguine calm that she had come to associate with Philip's face was gone; his eyes were wide and his face pale. He was breathing in short gasps. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed yet, focused as they were on the handsome group of young people, and so Donna quickly moved to him. "Philip…Doctor! What's wrong with you? Pull yourself together!"

The Doctor gave no sign of recognition, but continued to stare at Rosalind. Then he turned his eyes to Donna and swallowed. He tried to speak once, and failed. He licked his lips and tried again. "Donna…that woman. That's Rose."


	3. Chapter 3: The Evening and the Morning

**Chapter 3: The Evening and the Morning**

"**What do** you mean, it's Rose? Your Rose?"

"Yes."

"You mean, your actual Rose? Like she's…traveled back in time?"

"No, I don't think so. I think Rosalind must simply be an ancestor. Still, the resemblance is remarkable. Well…minus the hair dye and mascara."

The Doctor had recovered himself somewhat, but he still looked deeply shaken now that he was alone with Donna. He had heard the door when Rosalind emerged into the courtyard, but had not immediately looked at her, absorbed as he had been in studying the earl's interaction with his son. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that the earl was a nasty piece of work. When he had turned his eyes to the young woman who had roused her father's ire, he had to use all his restraint not to shout. Or faint. It was Rose. His beloved Rose, the face he had longed to see for so many years, now in front of him, albeit in an unfamiliar costume. He had felt a moment of wild hope that this was indeed Rose, somehow transported into the past, and that she would at any moment recognize him and run to him. He had quickly shaken off this idea—he didn't even look like himself, after all, and it could not be Rose, not really. After Donna had roused him from his reverie, he had been able to meet the girl and bow over her hand without incident, although when he met her amber eyes he had felt a spark at the appraising curiosity he found there. Now he merely felt exhausted by the waves of emotion that had crashed through him. He had no time to indulge in this, however; there was a major banquet planned that evening to welcome them, and he would be at the head table with his sister, the earl, Robert, and presumably Rosalind too. Not to mention all the functions leading up to the wedding where they would be together. He needed to get over this coincidental resemblance so that he could function around her without his mouth gaping open like a fish's. Certainly odder things had happened to him in his lives. But he was struck anew by the fact that the women who were most important to him—Rose, his great love, and Donna, his best mate—seemed destined to have their timelines intertwine with his.

He shook himself. The important thing here was not Rosalind's resemblance to a woman eight hundred years in the future, it was keeping the marriage between Blanche and Robert on track. He could avoid Rosalind as much as possible, and when it was necessary to speak with her, he would keep their interactions pleasant and shallow. He could do this. He turned and saw the worry in Donna's gaze as she considered him. He smiled and hoped it reached his eyes.

**Of course**, he thought sourly, they had been placed next to each other at dinner. Of course. He shook a mental fist at the universe for foiling his plan to avoid her. On one side of him sat the earl, who ate his dinner in silence and drank with grim determination, emptying cup after cup of ale. This left the Doctor no option but to turn to the woman on his left and engage her in conversation.

"Lady Rosalind, your brother told us you hunt."

Her eyes turned to him and she set down her knife. "I do, yes, and I ride every day."

He smiled. "It must be a great passion of yours."

"One among many, yes. I grew up trying to keep up with my older brother in every way, including on horseback." Her mouth curved and then she turned her attention back to her plate, but after she ate another bite she spoke again. "Is your sister nervous about staying here?"

"Is she…what?"

"Nervous? About being left here in the wilds of northern England?"

He smiled and shook his head. "I don't know. I have not asked her. She knows it is her duty and she seems to have developed a good rapport with your brother very quickly."

She met his eyes, those disturbingly familiar amber ones raising goose bumps on his skin, despite his best efforts to remain unaffected. "I would find it difficult to leave my home," she said softly.

"You would miss your father, no doubt."

Her brows drew together, but after a moment, in a steady voice, she said only, "My brother in particular."

"Yes, you wouldn't want to give him the impression you'd miss me, would you, you ungrateful little bitch?" The slurred voice of the earl boomed from over the Doctor's shoulder. The Doctor froze, his eyes still on Rosalind's face. She did not move but her pupils dilated and her lips parted slightly; she looked unsurprised but wary. When she did not speak the Doctor turned back to his right and considered the earl, who appeared angry indeed, but it was a coiled anger, held under control, and the look on his face was one of… enjoyment? Anticipation? It was an impression that chilled the Doctor's blood. He strove to break the uncomfortable silence that reigned as father and daughter fixed their eyes on each other, neither willing to look away.

"My lord earl, the Lady Rosalind and I were discussing the quality of the hunting in your forests hereabouts. I hope to join the hunt on one of the days before the wedding."

From behind him came Rosalind's voice, quiet and polite but—did he imagine it?—with the slightest drawl of defiance. "Yes, father, perhaps the king will ride with us tomorrow. Might you join us as well?"

Tame enough words, it seemed, and yet the earl's face darkened to an alarming shade of red. He took a step toward his daughter and the Doctor wondered for a moment if he would have to stop the man from assaulting the girl. But from behind the earl the voice of Robert came, soft but commanding: "Father." It was enough to stop the older man in his tracks. The Doctor considered Robert, who had risen in his seat on the earl's other side. The young man continued, "I thought I might ask the musicians to play. The Lady Blanche has told me she enjoys dancing. Would this be acceptable?"

The charged atmosphere in the room drained away as suddenly as it had arisen. The earl's shoulders seemed to slump and he nodded, returning to his chair. After a few minutes the music began, and Robert, with an elaborate gesture, led Blanche to the part of the hall apparently used for dancing. The Doctor sat back in his own seat, and after a moment watching the young couple, who were soon joined by other dancers, he turned his head to consider Rosalind again. She was flushed and breathed a little quickly, as if from the adrenaline of the interaction with her father. Gods, but she was beautiful.

He dragged his thoughts from this direction and considered the simmering tension that appeared to exist in the Northumberland family. The earl, who apparently drank more than was beneficial to his health and mental stability and who seemed angry and embittered. The young daughter who rode and hunted and most definitely did not dress with the care and refinement and elaborate clothing expected of a woman of her status. Who seemed to wish to bait her father, however subtly. The seemingly affable son who could phrase a respectful question in a bland voice that nonetheless seemed to carry the power of an unspoken command. There was a history here, he thought, and apparently not a happy one.

**The next** morning dawned gray and rainy and the Doctor assumed, despite Rosalind's words the night before, that there would be no ride. He was surprised, therefore, when, standing at the window in one of the great rooms of the castle, he saw the lady herself pound out of the courtyard on horseback, followed at a little distance by what appeared to be two bedraggled male escorts. He smiled. It was not an inviting day for riding; she must be dedicated indeed. Peering through the thick, swirled glass of the window, he noted with surprise that she rode astride, in what was, for the day, the masculine fashion.

A voice from behind him said, "Good morning, my lord Philip. I hope you slept well and found your chamber comfortable."

He turned and bowed to Robert. "I did indeed, thank you."

"My lord, I want to apologize for the scene at dinner last night. I have already extended my regrets to Blanche that her first evening here would be disturbed by family quarrels. I hope you were not excessively upset by our rudeness."

"My dear Robert, please do not think twice about it. But…if I am not being too forward, may I ask about your sister and your father? Why do they seem to be at odds?"

"You are giving your sister in marriage to our family. It is only natural that you would wish to know." Robert sighed and moved to stand next to him at the window. After a moment's thought he turned to meet the Doctor's eyes. It really was remarkable, studying him up close, how much Robert resembled his sister. The large golden brown eyes were exactly the same. "My sister is…a wonderful woman, my lord." At the quirk that appeared at the corner of the Doctor's mouth, Robert smiled sheepishly. "I say this as an indulgent older brother, I admit. But she is. She rivals any horseman in this land—partly because she loves riding so. As you just saw, it takes more than rain to stop her. She is also a scholar. I know no one more intelligent, much as the bishop and the cathedral clergy think it unseemly to discuss theology with a woman." He paused, seemingly lost in thought.

The Doctor prodded him. "It is unusual for a woman to ride alone—and astride—with only male escorts. And I noticed her dress was rather…simpler than one might expect from a woman of her status."

Robert sighed. "And did you notice the ink stains on her fingertips? She learned to write and likes to copy books for her personal library herself—at least the books she particularly values and does not trust to scribes. With her various activities she is rarely presentable, at least in the terms expected of an earl's daughter."

"How did she come to be so highly educated? If your father thinks so little of her, why would he allow it?"

"It is not a question of allowing it, my lord."

"Then?"

Robert opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. He looked wary. The Doctor suddenly realized what might be bothering him. "Robert, I have no intention of breaking this match. I am giving Blanche to you, not your father. And I have already seen enough of you to be happy with that choice."

Robert looked relieved. "Then I will speak frankly. It is no less than you deserve." He took a breath and sat in the window seat, gesturing for the Doctor to sit next to him. "My sister is nineteen, five years younger than myself. Her birth was exceedingly difficult. It is one of my earliest memories, the sounds of screams from my mother's birthing chamber." He paused and swallowed. "My father loved my mother very much, my lord. And she died that day, giving birth to my sister. And my father…he never forgave God, or Rosalind, for that."

The Doctor sat back against the stone of the wall. "Ah. What a tragedy for your family."

"Yes. But not uncommon, sadly. In most families, the father would remarry and life would slowly recover normalcy. It is to my father's credit, I suppose, that he loved my mother so much, but…well, you saw him drinking last night. I wish he had found joy again, or at least comfort. It might have softened his attitude to Rose."

The Doctor stifled a gasp. "To…whom?"

Robert looked mystified by his reaction. "My sister. I call her Rose."

"I see." The Doctor had a few stern words with himself and then prompted Robert again. "So, your father was never close to his daughter?"

"No. He basically avoided seeing her. You may have noticed that Rose and I do not resemble our father. We take after our mother, and Rose's resemblance to her is apparently remarkable—I do not remember my mother well enough to confirm this, but my aunt and others have said so. I think that from her childhood it pained my father to see her. It was always best to keep them separate. My sister, it soon became apparent, was high-spirited, and it seemed she almost enjoyed goading my father. He has struck her in the past, during their arguments. He is no longer in the physical condition of his youth, but he is still a powerful man. It is my goal to keep them from arguing, as it rarely ends well." Robert paused and the Doctor felt anger thrill through his body at the thought of Rose—Rosalind—being harmed.

Robert continued, "The result of my father's aversion to Rosalind was neglect. He never hired tutors for her, or maids…so she began tagging along with me to my lessons, both in riding and in the schoolroom. I don't mind admitting that she quickly surpassed me in the latter. As soon as I was old enough I took it upon myself to make sure she got what she needed and wanted in the way of schooling; as it turned out, she developed a real thirst for study. I was able to find one or two sympathetic clerics at our cathedral school who were willing to teach her the scribal arts as well as theology and philosophy."

The Doctor could not help but smile at this description. It seemed only right, somehow, that this ancestor of his own Rose should be remarkable. But he noticed that Robert appeared distressed, even as he described his sister's accomplishments in loving terms. The Doctor laid a hand on the younger man's arm. "It sounds like you were a very conscientious brother."

"I wonder, my lord. I did what seemed best when we were younger, but now…what will become of her? What man will want to marry her? My father makes no effort to make a match for her, and most of the men she meets are put off by her demeanor and lack of the usual feminine accomplishments. But what options are there besides marriage? Believe me, Rose is not meant for a convent." Robert gave a short laugh at the thought. "Rose claims she has no desire to marry, that she will remain with me as my 'spinster sister', as she puts it. But I would like her to be loved, to have children."

"Are there no friends of the family who might be interested? Or, when you are earl, might you not arrange a match for her? She is, after all, a member of one of the most powerful families in England. Many men would put up with a great deal for that connection."

"You're right, of course. I would have hoped to have her marry someone who would actually appreciate her, however. But I imagine that such men do not exist in great numbers." The two men lapsed into silence, only broken by the sound of hoof beats entering the courtyard below the window. Robert stirred and smiled. "The weather must be foul indeed for Rosalind to be back so soon."

A wave of rain striking the window confirmed his statement. Moments later, the two men heard a commotion in the stairway and shortly after that, the lady herself emerged into the room. She was absolutely drenched, her gown mud-spattered as well as sodden. Her hair, which had apparently been wound into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, had, through the effects of wind and rain, begun to escape. Tendrils clung damply to her neck and face. She glowed with health and lively enthusiasm. Spotting her brother, who had left the window seat when he heard her voice and approached the stairs, she ran into his embrace. "Oh Rob! You should have seen the river! It's roaring with all the water from this rain."

"I am surprised to see you back so soon. When has a little rain ever stopped you? Although," Robert looked down at his own tunic, now damp where they had hugged, "you certainly managed to get thoroughly soaked."

She pulled a face. "Ned and Jamie complained the entire time. I took pity on them. I wish you had been with me instead." She glanced around her. "No sign of Father yet?"

"No, I haven't seen him."

"I had better change my clothes. I don't want to incur his wrath by appearing like a drowned rat. Heaven forbid the king should see me like this. I'll never hear the end of it."

Robert looked as if he would respond to this, but then glanced at the Doctor and said instead, "The king is here, Rose."

Rose's eyes widened and turned for the first time to the man still seated in the window seat. She dropped a curtsy. "My lord. I did not see you there. Please forgive my appearance."

The Doctor grinned in return and rose. "My lady Rosalind. Please do not apologize. I only wish I had known you would ride in this weather; I would have accompanied you and could have seen the wild river you speak of."

She tilted her head and looked at him with increased interest. "I assumed, my lord, that you would have no desire to ride in the rain. I will not make that mistake again."

Robert spoke from behind her. "Do you think, my lord Philip, that Blanche might be awake yet?"

The Doctor turned from Rosalind's gaze and took in the young man, who was bouncing slightly on his heels and looked anxious and happy. He smiled. Obviously Robert had taken a shine to his soon-to-be wife. "I think you might inquire, Robert. At worst, Donna and the other ladies-in-waiting will send you away."

Robert left them with a grin, heading in the direction of Blanche's quarters. Rosalind's eyes followed him, an unreadable expression on her face. The Doctor watched her for a moment and then said, softly, "Do you fear the distraction of your brother's attention from you, Lady Rosalind?"

Her head turned and she regarded him with a look that was difficult to place. There was sadness in it, and perhaps slight affront that he should ask her such a question, but undoubtedly also a touch of amusement. "My lord, the match is a brilliant one and the Lady Blanche is gracious and beautiful. How could I be anything but pleased for my brother?"

"Indeed."

"My brother will be the finest earl that Northumberland has ever seen. He needs a great lady by his side to aid him and give him heirs."

"Quite."

She leaned a little closer to him, an intriguing mix of mischief and warning in her eyes. "And if I felt otherwise, what possible motivation would I have to confide in you, my lord Philip?" And with a raise of her eyebrows, she was gone, taking the fragrance of rain with her.


	4. Chapter 4: A Ride and a Conversation

**Chapter 4: A Ride and a Conversation**

"**First-class** bastard." Thus was Donna Noble's assessment of Edward, earl of Northumberland.

"Donna, he lost his wife," the Doctor said, with the slightest tone of reproach in his voice, even as he smiled affectionately at the indignant redhead.

"And if the girl had slipped poison in her mother's soup or…or bludgeoned her with a rock, I'd understand his behavior entirely. But the poor wee thing didn't ask to be born and certainly didn't intend to kill her mother in the process. How much guilt must she carry for that? And to have her father treat her as if it's her fault…" Donna's voice trailed off and she shook her head in disbelief.

They sat together in Philip's chamber. Donna considered the Doctor, who, despite looking like the king of France, was seated in uniquely Doctor-ish fashion, with his chair tipped back and his feet resting crossed on the table in front of him, tongue touching his top lip as he pondered the situation. If his tunic had pockets, his hands would undoubtedly have been buried in them.

"The remarkable thing," he continued, "is what she's done as the neglected child of a half-mad, resentful father. How many children would wither under such circumstances? But she's taken all the opportunities to educate herself, made herself into a scribe, a scholar, a horsewoman…" He grinned.

Donna eyed him skeptically. "And do those accomplishments help her in this society?"

His smile faded. "Robert said that, too. That in allowing her to do what she's done, he's created an unmarryable woman."

"Sounds to me like he's being more realistic about her prospects than you are."

The Doctor hummed and avoided her gaze. Her eyes narrowed. "Doctor?"

"Don't start, Donna."

"We are here to ensure the marriage of Blanche and Robert and then leave. You remember that, right?"

"Of course I do."

"Are you sure you're keeping that clearly in mind? And not being distracted by the fact that she looks like Rose?"

His eyes flashed. "Donna, no one is more aware than I that this is not my Rose. I don't need you to remind me."

Donna was silent for a moment. Then, as a peace offering, she changed the subject. "Robert seems to be a nice man, not a bit like his father."

The Doctor brightened immediately at this neutral topic. "Yes. I'm not sure that in good conscience I could leave any woman in the sole care of the father, but I think Blanche will be just fine with Robert. Intelligent lad, too."

"Hopefully the wedding will come off without any scenes."

"Mmm. I imagine I'll be seated between the earl and Rosalind. I'll get to play peacemaker."

"And then we can get back to the TARDIS." Donna found it hard to conceal her relief at the thought.

"What, Donna, you're not enjoying yourself on this adventure?" He grinned at her, tongue between teeth.

"I'm cold, it's constantly damp, I'm wearing these itchy and uncomfortable clothes, we're in a house with a father and daughter that hate each other, and all I do is lace Blanche in and out of gowns. Oh, and it would appear, spaceman, that the entire world thinks I'm your mistress." The Doctor's eyes widened, affecting a look of innocent surprise. "Yeah, I figured that one out. Don't think you're not going to pay for that, by the way. So, to answer your question, yeah, I'm ready to be done with this adventure."

**In the** chill of the seven o'clock hour the next morning, the Doctor sat on his horse on a bluff overlooking the river, with the castle some distance at his back. Although the rain had stopped the day before, the river still roiled impressively below him, and branches of trees, caught in the flow, were visible crashing into the pylons of the massive stone bridge they had crossed several days before. He turned to look at the woman whose horse stood next to his own. Rosalind was dressed in what appeared to be her standard costume for early morning riding: a dress covered with a long woolen cloak with a line of finely-wrought metal clasps that fastened it all the way up to her throat. She wore a blue cap on her head and—he could see where her feet rested in the stirrups—woolen leggings under her dress. She sat, as he did, astride. Behind her, quite nearby but far enough not to hear their conversation, sat the same two escorts, wearing the livery of the earl of Northumberland, a black wolf embroidered on their chests.

"It was kind of you to let me join you this morning, my lady."

"Not at all. Normally Rob would have come, but the wedding preparations are beginning in earnest. I believe he's up already, harassing the cooks and the decorators. It will be a long day."

"Indeed. It is hard to believe only two days remain before the wedding." He gave a slight shiver. "Is it possible that the weather will warm up somewhat before then?" His eyes lingered on her ankles and the woolen leggings on them.

She followed his eyes and smiled. She drew her dress up fractionally. "Woolen pants—they help with the chill. It's rarely warm in the early morning here, even in mid-summer."

"And I presume they allow you to ride astride."

"Yes. I can ride side-saddle but it's impossible to get up much speed that way without toppling off. Ridiculous, really. When I was younger I wore only trousers with an old tunic of my brother's when I rode, but when I came of age…my father no longer approved of that costume, so I came up with this."

He noticed the hitch in her voice as she mentioned her father. She fell silent and he could not resist trying to draw her out on the subject of the earl; given what Robert had told him the day before, he wondered what this brilliant and strange girl thought of her own situation. "And does your father not object to you riding alone with only male escorts?"

She smiled, a little bitterly. "He is rarely awake early enough to see me leave or even return, so it has not come up."

"Is he participating in the wedding preparations today as well?"

She turned her head and regarded him with an expression of studied blandness. "My father does not confide his plans in me, I am afraid."

She was good at evasion, he decided. He would have to put more of his cards on the table if he wanted to know her better. "Your brother told me something of your troubles with your father yesterday."

Her gaze sharpened. "My brother must find you an appealing confidant if he told you such unflattering things about our family so shortly after making your acquaintance."

"I think he was concerned about how I would interpret the scene at dinner the night before. I reassured him of my intention to carry through with the wedding."

"And he then told you the whole story. I see."

"I wouldn't say the 'whole story'". But he told me of the reasons for your father's, ah, attitude toward you. It explained a great deal, of course, about the dinner."

She paused and her expression softened. "I can imagine why you would be worried about leaving your sister here, thinking that perhaps my father might mistreat her. Rest assured that he is…he is generally a good man. He probably will not notice her very much, frankly. She will not be harmed. His anger is directed almost exclusively at me, for reasons that I am sure Robert outlined for you."

Her face, usually so controlled and amused, suddenly looked so sad. Before he thought it through, the Doctor blurted out, "I can't imagine how you tolerate being treated in that way, my lady."

At this she startled him by giving a full-throated laugh. The escorts started up in their saddles at the sound, but immediately settled again when they saw nothing amiss. Rosalind turned to look at him directly. "What kind of thing is that to say, my lord?"

"What…?" He was bewildered, and it showed.

"You say that as if…as if I have some choice in the matter. You cannot be a naïve man. I have read and heard too much of your political maneuvering and successes in France to believe that. And yet you ask me such a question. What would you have me do? Shall I usurp my father and rule as earl myself? Shall I ignore his wishes when they are directly expressed? Shall I bring down his anger on my brother by forcing Robert to come to my defense more than he already does? He is my father. His word is law. I feel gratitude that his dislike of me has resulted in neglect and only occasional interference; that Robert has been effectively put in charge of my upbringing. A father whose resentment was more focused, less…blurred by drink might have married me already to some ancient husband, or put me in a nunnery, just to get me out of his sight!"

He reached out a hand and touched her arm. "Forgive me, Lady Rosalind. I spoke without thinking."

After a moment she gathered herself and shook her head. "No, I spoke too hastily. Your question was meant kindly. And I know that you saw me provoke my father at the dinner. It is something I try to avoid doing, but sometimes…sometimes I cannot help myself in the moment. Generally, I try to remember that he lost everything he loved most when he lost my mother. And he never again found anyone who can stop him when he is at his worst."

The Doctor shuddered at her unconscious echo of Donna's words to him from their first meeting. She noticed immediately and it was her turn to reach out to him. "My lord? Are you well?"

"Yes, thank you." The feel of her hand on his sleeve was distracting. "I just…I admire your ability to understand how much the loss of a great love can wound a man."

She considered him. "You are a widower, are you not, my lord? I know you lost your queen in childbirth some years ago—and your child too—and that you have not remarried." She looked suddenly abashed. "This must be a difficult subject for you. Forgive me."

He stared at her. "Yes, my wife—Isabelle—died ten years ago. She was a good woman and I mourned her. But we were not…it was not the kind of loss your father experienced." He wanted to say more, wanted to tell her he had experienced that kind of loss, but he could not. That was not Philip's loss, but his own; the loss of a girl physically identical to the one in front of him, and who, beyond outward resemblance, shared with this woman a deep sense of empathy and a tendency to chafe against her assigned lot in life.

She spoke again. "Less sad for you, but more so for your wife, perhaps? To die without great love?" She paused and shook her head. "Now it is I who am speaking out of turn."

He caught her eye and with his look let her know he was not offended. "Are you a romantic, my lady?"

She grinned at him. "On some days. In this case, I was thinking of a poem I read recently—composed in France, as it happens—_The Song of Roland_."

He nodded excitedly. "I know it! I heard it sung at my court not long ago, although I've never seen a written text of it."

"Ah, well. I should show you the manuscript of it that I borrowed from the cathedral library. My point was: the poem, as you know, is full of great deeds—Roland fighting the Muslims and dying heroically, the revenge of Charlemagne for his nephew's death. But in Roland's death scene, when he knows he will not survive, he thinks of France, and his king, and his friends dead beside him in battle, but not once of his fiancée. But when she hears the news of his death, she immediately dies herself, of grief. The poet spares only two or three lines for her, and yet I cannot help but think of her as tragic. Living for a man who did not live for her."

"I never thought of it that way."

"No, why would you? It is not something often discussed. We are, after all, encouraged to be passive creatures, we women, even if we are not inclined that way by natural temperament."

"And you, my lady? Are you not naturally passive?" His face was expressionless but his tone mischievous.

She met his eyes. "I, my lord? I am the model of genteel femininity. And to prove it, I will race you across the bridge."

Without warning, she spurred her horse into motion and pelted in the direction of the switchback road that led down the hill toward the riverbank and the stone bridge. An hour later, as they arrived back at the castle with their horses lathered from the effort, the Doctor could only thank the universe for the fact that the TARDIS had given him Philip's muscle memories and physical abilities along with his mental faculties. If it had not been so, he would have broken his neck several times over trying to keep up with the young woman now laughing as she handed her horse off to the groom. The Doctor shared a rueful glance with the two young escorts as he stiffly dismounted and followed her into the castle.


	5. Chapter 5: A Visitor and a Dance

**Chapter 5: A Visitor and a Dance**

**Although the** Doctor only arrived in the hall a few moments after Rosalind—he was moving somewhat slowly due to the cramping in his legs—he felt as if he had missed something important, walking as he did into a commotion. Robert was standing toward the far end of the great hall with Blanche beside him, watching benevolently as Rosalind was swung in the arms of a large dark-haired man of roughly her own age. "Will," she squealed, "you came!"

"Of course I came! Did you think I would miss the wedding?"

Robert stepped forward, leading Blanche. "Will, I want you to meet Blanche, the princess of France, my fiancée."

The man called Will disengaged himself from Rosalind and approached Philip's sister. Despite his familiar greeting of Rosalind he behaved with perfect formality now, bending low over the hand she offered him. "My lady. It is a pleasure and an honor. Welcome to Northumberland."

Blanche murmured a reply as Rosalind turned and her gaze settled on the Doctor. His heart jumped at her warm smile and her beckoning gesture.

"My lord, this is William Forster, son of the governor of Bamburgh Castle, one of my father's most loyal men. Will, may I present King Philip of France?"

The young man went down on one knee in a somewhat dramatic but charming gesture. The Doctor encouraged him to rise and the two men exchanged a few pleasantries before Will excused himself, turned back to Rosalind, and swept her into another hug.

"Well, Rosie, you look a right mess. Have you been out tearing around on Thunder already? And by the look of it, dragging the king of France with you."

She giggled and swatted his arm. "I'm going to clean up now, William. Go see my father and pay your respects. He has been keenly anticipating your arrival."

Will bowed low in exaggerated deference. "As my lady wishes."

After the two had left, Robert came to stand at the king's side. "Will was fostered here from the time he was eight. He grew up with my sister, as another brother in our house."

"They seem very fond of each other." Was that a touch of jealousy in his own voice? Surely not, although he did see Robert's eyes slide sideways to consider his face.

"Will's been betrothed for years to the daughter of one of his father's allies. It's a good match for him, although I regret it at times, as I think Rosalind could have been very happy with him."

The Doctor had no idea how to respond to this, and it took him a moment to quell the spike of annoyance in his own gut at the remark. He settled, therefore, for a small smile at Robert before turning to Blanche with an inquiry about the progress of the wedding preparations.

**That evening**, another dinner was held in the great hall. This time, it was Will who sat between Edward and Rosalind, and it was impossible to miss the improved tone at the high table. Will's easygoing demeanor seemed infectious. When he spoke to the earl, Will did not abandon the cheeky tone he had used on Rosalind and Robert; to the contrary, he was—or seemed—oblivious to the man's generally grim countenance, laughing and teasing throughout the meal. In turn, Edward softened in a way the Doctor had not seen him do with his own children. Robert, on the Doctor's other side, looked calm and happy as he chatted with Blanche. Rosalind, meanwhile, looked particularly radiant this evening, and not only to his own eye. She seemed to flower in the more relaxed atmosphere that dominated the hall, smiling more freely and even laughing at some of the comments Will directed at her. The Doctor, seated on the earl's other side, could not see her as well as he would have liked, but he heard the happy timbre of her voice and her laugh drifted down the table to him at regular intervals.

After the meal was cleared, Will had addressed himself to his foster father, asking if there might be music and dancing. Once again, the Doctor was struck by the difference in tone from two nights before, when Robert had made the same request in an attempt to quash the simmering tension in the room. Edward readily agreed to Will's suggestion and Will turned immediately to Rosalind, beckoning her with a mischievous grin. She curtsied, took his hand, and joined him on the hastily cleared dance floor. Robert led Blanche to the floor thereafter, and others followed. Those who did not dance stood around the edges of the hall, watching the spectacle. The Doctor found himself next to Donna, both leaning against a stone pillar at the edge of the crowd. The other non-dancers in the gathering kept a respectful distance from the king of France and his supposed mistress. The two shared a smile and both relaxed a bit, happy to be alone in each other's company, or at least out of the earshot of others.

"That boy should visit more often," Donna commented, inclining her head in Will's direction. "The place feels halfway friendly with him around." When the Doctor did not reply she continued, "Rosalind looks pretty tonight. She sent word to Blanche asking if Blanche's maid might do her hair. It looks lovely."

He let his eyes linger on Rosalind, who was dressed, as always, in a simple gown, but this one was a deep wine color that particularly suited her. Her hair was indeed much more elaborately dressed, high on her head with jewels visible in it. It exposed the length of her neck and throat—unlike Blanche and many of the other ladies of the court, she wore no veil covering her head. Perhaps most importantly, she looked genuinely at ease dancing with Will. Her eyes shone and her smile never wavered as they clasped hands and went through the complex steps of the circle dance.

Donna spoke again. "Will seems to be good for her too. Wonder if anyone's thought to marry off those two?"

Here he finally answered her. "Robert said that Will already is betrothed to another lady, to cement an alliance of his father's."

"That's too bad."

"Mmm." He kept his eyes on Rosalind even though he could feel Donna's gaze on him. Finally he turned his head to look at her. He knew what she was thinking—that he was getting too involved with this girl—and his first instinct was to be defensive, but he saw the affection and concern in her eyes.

"Donna, I'm alright, really. It's not Rose. I know that. I'm…I'm fine."

She gave him her softest smile. "You're always alright, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I wish I could hug you, Doctor."

"Me too." He brushed her arm lightly with his fingertips and they turned back to watching the dance.

**She entered** his room, as usual, without knock or other preamble. "Big brother."

"Little sister."

Robert laid down the book he was reading as she approached; a book that she had copied for him for his last birthday. He often used reading as his way of relaxing before going to bed, letting his body and mind slow down. He was stretched out on his window seat, which was lined with a long cushion and scattered with pillows, making it an appealing place to sit. In the daytime it was warm with sunlight, and now, at night, it offered a view of the stars, albeit somewhat distorted by the thick glass.

Rosalind picked up the small codex where he had laid it down. "Ah, _Roland_. I was just talking about this with the king today." She climbed into the seat next to him, her back straight against the window. She tucked a pillow behind her to make her comfortable and draped her legs over his.

Robert asked, "Did he know it?"

"He had heard it sung, but not read it. Imagine, being at a court with real troubadours! And I wager they have real scholars and thinkers at the palace in Paris too, not just sour old cathedral clerics." She shook her head and replaced the book at her brother's side.

"I was just re-reading my favorite part."

"Roland's death?"

"Mmm. When he tries to break his sword to keep the enemy from getting it."

"Philip told me there's a shrine in the hills in the middle of France where there's a sword lodged high in a cliff-face. They claim it's Durandal—pilgrims come to see it, along with the saints. Has to be a fake, of course, but still…wouldn't it be lovely to see?"

She still wore her red dress, but she had taken down her hair and brushed it out, then quickly made a braid at each temple and joined them at the back of her head with a clip, keeping the hair out of her face. It reminded him of the style she had worn as a young girl. He reached out and touched her cheek. "You seem happy tonight."

"I am. I realized how much I miss having Will here. Father is so much more contented when he's around. He lifts the gloom." She paused. "Hopefully we gave the king and Blanche a better impression of our family tonight."

Their eyes met and as usual he followed her train of thought. "Are you angry that I told him about Mother?"

She sighed and shook her head. "No. After the incident at dinner that first night I knew he'd be concerned. You had to tell him if you wanted to ensure the match. I just wish…"

"What?"

"I wish I didn't require explaining. I don't want to be an impediment to you. I just…let my temper get the better of me." She scratched at a faded ink stain on the palm of her left hand.

He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. "Rose, you are many things, but you are never an impediment to me."

She smiled lovingly at him and nodded. They sat together in companionable silence until she spoke again. "Are you in love with Blanche?"

"In love? You've been reading too much poetry."

"But she is beautiful. Such a fine lady." He snorted at this description and she continued, a bit defensively, "Well, you have been spending a lot of time with her."

He forgot, sometimes, how young she still was. "She is beautiful, yes. And I am going to marry her in two days. I want to like her. Indeed, I hope that I might love her one day, and that she might love me. Because of that, I want things to get off to as good a start as possible."

"If you behave as if it's true, it might someday be true?"

"Exactly."

She hesitated, then said, "Aren't you afraid to love her, like Father loved Mother? Look what it did to him."

"Look what it did to all of us. But…we can't live being afraid of what will happen. You could die. I could die. I could have died when I had that fever last year. But we love each other, you and I. We love despite the risks."

She shivered and snuggled into his chest. "Don't talk about the fever, Rob. It was terrible."

"I'm sorry."

After another quiet stretch, he remarked, "The king watches you with interest."

She chuckled. "The king watches everyone with interest, hadn't you noticed? You can see why he's a successful king."

"What do you mean?"

"He sees everything. He has spent—what—an few hours in my company? And yet yesterday and today he was analyzing my motives and my emotions with startling accuracy. And he never says much. Just watches, and thinks, and gets other people to talk too much." She leaned back to give her brother a significant look, and he flushed. "It's fascinating and it's unnerving, the way he behaves."

"He sounds like someone else I know."

"What, me? No. I watch and think, yes, but then I get flustered and say the first thing that comes into my head, and pay for it."

"Hmm." He pretended to consider the point. "It is possible you are not the most diplomatic person."

She poked him in the ribs. "You don't see me as queen of France, then, eh?" Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

"To be fair, you only really clash with Father."

"You're giving me too much credit. My behavior dismays lots of people. Not you and Will, of course. But particularly Father, you're right." She smiled. "You see, that is why you can't ever leave me, Rob. I'd be alone here with Father. The earl and the bad wolf. We'd tear each other apart." Her tone was light but he knew better.

"You know I don't like it when you call yourself that."

"I didn't come up with it."

Robert sighed. "He was drunk at the time."

"I remember. I have a scar to prove it." She rotated her wrist thoughtfully.

He put an arm around her. "I'm here, Rose. I'll be here. No plans besides being earl, marrying Blanche, and giving you lots of nieces and nephews to dote on."

"I'll make a wonderful eccentric aunt."

His face in her hair, he whispered, "That you will."

They sat together a while longer before she yawned and extracted herself from the seat. "'Night, Rob," she murmured, placing a gentle kiss on his temple and returning to her own chamber.


	6. Chapter 6: Manuscripts and Reminiscences

**Chapter 6: Manuscripts and Reminiscences**

**The late** afternoon sunlight streamed through the thick glass of Rosalind's small workroom the next day. She sat at her desk, which stood near the window, positioned to capture the light and thereby ease the strain that hours of detailed work could cause her eyes. But nothing, she thought as she stretched her fingers, frozen from being locked around the pen, could forestall the cramping of muscles. The monks believed that writing fulfilled their mandate for manual labor, and as she moved her aching shoulders she thought they might just be right. She sat on a stool at her slanted writing desk, a piece of parchment tacked to its surface, the wood of which was a mottled constellation of holes from being used in this way for many years. She wanted to finish the final line on this sheet before stopping for the day, so she sighed, rolled her shoulders, and picked up her tools: in her left hand, the blunt knife she used to anchor the parchment, stretching it taut in the area on which she was writing. Then with her right hand she reached for the quill pen that rested in the inkpot on the topmost part of her desk, which was flat. She blotted the excess ink lightly on a spare piece of parchment and then refreshed her memory of the next passage in the text before putting the pen to the animal skin. The satisfying sound of scratching filled the tiny room. She caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth, her concentration absolute, as she finished the last five Latin words of the chapter. The end of the final word did not quite reach the end of the line, which would spoil the perfect box of text on the page, so she drew a small flourish to fill the remainder of the line and render the effect harmonious. Sitting back, she smiled down at her work. And then jumped as a voice spoke from the doorway.

"What text are you copying?"

The Doctor had not meant to speak to her. He had not even been looking for her, but rather had been wandering the somewhat labyrinthine corridors in search of Blanche's chamber, hoping to find Donna, when he happened upon the half-open door to the tiny sunlit room. Rosalind was in it, bent over her desk, the highlights in her hair golden and green in the dappled, refracted sunlight that shone through the window. His heart in his mouth, he considered her, forming the beautiful letters on the parchment, her tongue—gods help him—poking out between her teeth at the corner of her mouth.

It was a strange and a fascinating thing, this setting on the chameleon arch. He was himself and he could inhabit solely his own brain and memories when he chose. When he did so, it was hard to see Rosalind as anything but Rose in period costume. So much was the same: her intelligence, her wariness, her empathy shielded behind defensiveness. Her face was identical. Her eyes… And of course for him, for the Doctor, her quirks, the things that made her unusual in her time and place, were only positive qualities that made her more compelling.

But what did her contemporaries see when they looked at her? And here the chameleon arch came into play. He could allow himself to sink into Philip's thoughts, expectations, and memories and draw upon them, while remaining conscious himself. Sort of like putting on someone else's glasses. Well, someone else's glasses you could actually see through. Well, full-body glasses with emotions involved. Well…oh, fine, the metaphor wasn't working. Point being, he could make the choice to see her through Philip's eyes. He had not done much of this, as he had been relishing being with her himself. But now, in an attempt to achieve some modicum of perspective on the girl, since her attention seemed safely fixed upon the page in front of her, he did so, immersing his mind in that of the French king. Opening his eyes, he felt the shock of seeing a young woman who was not a nun engaged in writing a book. In Latin, no less! A daughter of an earl dressed in a remarkably disheveled and unpolished way. A girl, in short, not fulfilling the expectations of her role in life in any visible way. Cold realization settled in on the Doctor, and he saw the truth of what Robert and Donna had said to him—that she was, in some way, unfit for her own life.

But then the tone of Philip's thoughts began to change, and the Doctor sucked in a breath, getting an inkling of the remarkable man Donna had seen in their brief conversation in the woods. For, as Philip continued to look at Rosalind, as he saw over her shoulder in this tiny room the beauty of the text she was writing, as he remembered the sight of her flying ahead of him on horseback on that steep riverside road, his chill dismissal of her strangeness began to warm into appreciation of her uniqueness. And, the Doctor noted, Philip's eyes did not miss the fine shape of her ink-stained hands, the wheaty abundance of her hair, the beauty of her amber eyes, the line of her lips. Philip, he realized, would have appreciated this girl, once he got over his initial shock. Philip might even have loved this girl, given time, were he here, being given the opportunity to do so. And now the Doctor felt a flash of guilt, that in attempting to ensure the marriage of Robert and Blanche, he might have denied Rosalind her own chance. But then he shook himself, realizing that Philip was a king, not free to follow his heart in these matters. It was probably for the best, he reasoned, that Rosalind was not set up for disappointment. Before he knew it, he was asking her what text she was copying, and she whirled around in her chair, startled.

"My lord Philip. I did not realize you were there."

"I was looking for my sister's quarters. I think I got lost at some point. Your door was open. Forgive my intrusion."

"Not at all." But she looked uncertain, as if bracing herself. She did not know, he realized, how Philip would respond to her activity. So he asked again.

"And what is the text?"

"Oh. It is by Fulcher, a cleric of Chartres—his history of the expedition to Jerusalem. The crusade. I just finished copying the section on the battle of Antioch."

"I know the text. It is a long one to copy."

"It is, but I do love to read stories of the Holy Land and other faraway places. And I wanted my own copy, so the clerics of the cathedral stop bothering me to return theirs."

"And, no doubt, you admire the bravery of the knights who won Jerusalem." This was Philip speaking through the Doctor, who suddenly remembered that Philip had gone on crusade too, very early in his reign, in the company of the famed English king Richard the Lionheart. Philip had returned to France early, without engaging the enemy, to the mockery of much of Europe. Rosalind had stumbled onto a dangerous subject, therefore.

She responded, "I think, my lord, that war is always brutal—even holy war. No doubt it is necessary nonetheless, especially in certain cases. But that does not make it less brutal." She paused. "My interest lies more in the descriptions of the lands oversea. I would dearly love to leave England, to see warmer climes, to sail the Mediterranean. I fear that I will not have such a chance, but I do enjoy reading about it."

"You might not feel the pull of the Mediterranean quite so strongly had you ever been tossed about by it."

She looked eager and gestured for him to sit in the chair that was the only other piece of furniture in the room. "You were in the Holy Land, were you not, my lord? Would you tell me, what was it like?"

He considered her. She was perched on her writing stool, her legs tucked under her, feet hooked on a high cross bar. Her chin rested on her hands, elbows on her knees. She looked very young.

"You are aware, my lady, that I returned from the crusade in a way considered disgraceful by many?"

"Our bishop has spoken of it and of your behavior in scathing terms, yes. He accused you of cowardice."

"Your bishop who is loyal to King John," the Doctor recalled, remembering his initial conversation with the earl.

"Indeed. He said you cravenly left John's brother Richard alone to face the great Saladin." She paused. "But as I listened to his description of your actions, it was impossible to miss the fact that by returning early, leaving Richard to fight in the Holy Land, you gave yourself the opportunity to win back great swathes of English-controlled land in France. I wondered, therefore, if it might have been less cowardice on your part and more strategy."

He couldn't help it. She was so clever. He grinned at her delightedly. "That is exactly it. I knew that the Lionheart was a great warrior—God knows he'd knocked me off my horse often enough in my youth. But I was sure that while he was tied up in Jerusalem fighting Saladin I could get back my kingdom, or at least a large part of it. My father had been unable to stop the English from snatching lands in France. Richard and his father were stronger militarily—it was that simple. If I was to reverse that trend, I needed Richard gone. It seemed a beneficial tradeoff, to save my kingdom at the expense of the opinion of men like your bishop."

She nodded. "It makes good sense. But were you not afraid of being excommunicated?"

"Thrown out of the church? Not really. None of my bishops would do it, and the pope…well, let's just say he saw me as a potential ally against England and Germany. He wasn't going to alienate me in that way. So no, that concern didn't outweigh the other considerations in favor of leaving." He added, "Plus, I had dysentery, along with half the army. That made the decision to leave even easier." He shuddered, remembering, through Philip, his illness and the agony of the journey home.

Rosalind said, "Our bishop briefly excommunicated my father and brother. It was a purely political move, and it was overturned by the papal court." She paused, and then asked again, "But what was it like? The Holy Land? While you were there?"

"Honestly, I did not see much of the place. I was only at the port at Acre." Her face fell, and he felt compelled to do better. "But Acre, even in wartime, is beautiful. The sea is totally different from our seas in the north. The water is turquoise and crystal clear. The city has sea walls that rise sheer from the water up to a great height, and you can walk the length of them. They face west, and in the evening they glow pink from the setting sun." Her face was enraptured, and he continued, closing his eyes briefly to try to conjure the sensations of his brief time in the eastern city.

"The whole city is built of golden stone, punctuated by the towers of churches and mosques. The streets are all so narrow, and you can get lost so easily, but as Christian soldiers we rarely needed to walk them, because the Templars have built a series of tunnels running under the city and they stay cool even in the nailing heat of the day. And the whole city smells of spice from the markets. It's…undefinable. It's beautiful."

Her eyes glowed with excitement. "It sounds wonderful."

He laughed. "Except when you're sweating in your armor and ill from the food and hoping that the next arrow that flies won't pierce your throat."

Spontaneously, she reached out and grasped his hand in both of hers. He gasped at the contact and his eyes flew to her face. She said, "Thank you, my lord. Thank you for sharing that with me."

Oh, he was lost. She was beautiful and brilliant and so touchingly grateful for such a short conversation, a brief recounting of a long-ago adventure. She was lonely, he realized. If he recognized one thing in all the universes, it was loneliness. How would she blossom, given the chance to see for herself the exotic places he described? And what if she saw the stars up close?

Here he stopped the rush of his thoughts, imagining what Donna would say, what he himself should be saying. He was not the Doctor, showing his Rose the stars. This was not even the same as him appearing in the life of Reinette and offering her just a glimpse of worlds beyond her imagining. No, here he was Philip, the king of France, having an innocent conversation with the Lady Rosalind of Northumberland. And yet, his fingers were still entwined with hers. Pushing aside his misgivings, he raised her hands to his mouth and laid his lips on her knuckles. He heard her intake of breath and held her hand still for just a few moments, savoring. Finally he released her and asked quietly, "May I join you on your ride in the morning?"

"Hmm?" She looked disconcerted and far away, but recovered herself quickly. "Yes, of course. I've persuaded Rob and Will to ride too; I know Rob will be nervous and it will help him calm himself before the wedding."

"I will see you then, Lady Rosalind."

"You will."

He smiled at her and left. Had he looked back—had he not been so absorbed with reveling in the slight tang on his lips from where they had touched her skin—he would have seen her rubbing her fingers over the place he had kissed, her face pensive.


	7. Chapter 7: The Loss and the Answer

**Chapter 7: The Loss and the Answer**

**The Doctor** stood in the courtyard of the castle the next morning, his face tipped upward toward the unexpectedly warm sunshine. After days of fog and chill, it felt marvelous to feel the sun on his skin, to see the sky a clear and vibrant blue. With his eyes closed, he could hear the hum of preparations for the wedding later that day. The wedding mass was to take place in the afternoon, followed by a lavish banquet in the evening. Durham Castle looked its finest; the servants had been working without respite to scrub and decorate. The door that led to the kitchens was open across the courtyard, and he could smell the rich odor of roasting meat and, more subtle, the sweet spice of baking pastry. The wedding. He was so close to the goal of the trip, the marriage of Robert and Blanche. He and Donna could then go home. Leave Northumberland behind. Return the true Philip to his life. Return themselves to the TARDIS. Donna would be thrilled. And he would be…

"My lord!"

His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Robert. He looked, understandably enough, pale and on edge. The Doctor smiled and clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "How do you feel? You have a fine day for it."

"Yes, thankfully. I didn't sleep much, I confess. I am looking forward to this ride." He sent an impatient glance toward the door from the living quarters, seeming to will his sister and foster brother to appear.

The Doctor drew on Philip's memories of his own wedding day years before. "It is the same for all bridegrooms, I'm afraid—and brides too, I imagine."

"You were married once, were you not, my lord?"

"I was indeed. Isabelle died ten years ago."

"I am sorry. Have you…have you never thought to marry again?" Almost as soon as the question was out, Robert blushed. "Forgive me, my lord, I should not pry."

"No, no, it is fine. A natural curiosity. A marriage for a king is a complicated thing, Robert. I have not found the right alliance to make."

"But…do you not worry about an heir?"

"I do, naturally. Perhaps you and Blanche will produce a nephew who will serve in a pinch."

Robert scuffed his toe on the paving stones in embarrassment at this remark, and the Doctor felt a surge of affection for the young man. Further conversation was cut off, however, by the arrival of their riding companions. The Doctor stepped forward to greet Rosalind, who blushed slightly when he bent over her hand. Raising his head, the Doctor saw that Robert noticed this and was studying the two of them speculatively. But soon the young man's attention was distracted by the voice of the earl, who appeared in the doorway. The Doctor felt Rosalind tense next to him at this unexpected turn. It appeared that Edward had not drunk as much as usual the night before; he was not only awake at this early hour, but dressed, groomed, and sharp of eye. He addressed his son: "Will tells me you're riding." Robert shot a glance at his foster brother, who looked abashed. "Is this a good idea, on your wedding day?"

"Of course, Father. We're not going far. It's just a brief ride to get some air." Robert smiled ruefully at Philip. "And to calm my nerves."

Edward was clearly unhappy at this idea. He crossed the courtyard and plucked at his son's sleeve. "Just because your sister feels the need to ride constantly doesn't mean you have to." The Doctor noticed that Rosalind's eyes remained resolutely on the ground. She was clearly determined not to engage her father today. "You should stay," the earl insisted.

Robert looked puzzled and mildly irritated, but he placed a reassuring hand on his father's shoulder. "We'll be back in an hour or so and I'll get dressed for the wedding. I promise, Father." He moved away, followed by the other three riders and a small group of servants who would accompany them. Turning back before they rounded the corner to the stables, the Doctor saw that the earl remained where they had left him.

The bitter irony, as the Doctor looked back on the events of that morning, was that it was not even a difficult ride. Nothing like the dash down the hillside with Rosalind two mornings ago. And yet…

The first hour had gone well. They were all able riders and set out at a good clip, leaving the castle and the city behind, the massive towers of the cathedral diminishing until they disappeared beyond the horizon. They followed along the meanders of the Wear, in a landscape of green hills and thick woods. It became clear, as they trotted along, that Robert was relaxing. He chatted with Will and Rosalind and laughed more freely. The weather continued to be fine, with the sun growing steadily stronger as the morning progressed. All of them shed their cloaks and enjoyed the warmth on their skin.

It was Robert who, after an hour, called for a stop. The four dismounted and their servants led the horses to water in the river. Rosalind, Robert, and Will moved, seemingly with one mind, and flung themselves down in the soft grass of the meadow that led to the riverbank. It occurred to the Doctor that this kind of early morning ride must have been a routine practice of their childhood. After a few minutes, they sat up as one of the attendants approached with a basket containing breakfast. None of them had eaten before leaving the castle, and they all felt their hunger after an hour of exercise. The basket contained bread, cheese, and apples. Rosalind took it upon herself to tear the bread apart and assemble simple cheese sandwiches for all of them, while Will procured a knife from one of the servants and began to halve an apple, coring it efficiently and cutting off slices to hand around. They all ate quietly, staring out over the river and enjoying the deliciousness of simple food in fresh air. Rosalind and Robert sat back-to-back, leaning against each other. Will and the Doctor were both cross-legged facing them. The moment was idyllic, and they all seemed hesitant to shatter it with too much conversation or with any reference to the events that would occur later that day. Finally, when all the food was consumed, it was Will who broached the issue: "We should probably return. We all need to look presentable this afternoon."

Robert and Rosalind both sighed. "Yes," Robert said, "we should." He turned and chucked his sister under the chin. "Thank you for proposing this, Rose. I feel much better." She grinned in response and squeezed his hand. All four of them stood, helping each other to their feet and then brushing off each other's backs, making sure they were not too disheveled. Their servants brought their horses and they mounted for the ride back to Durham.

Twenty minutes later they paused at the edge of a particularly open bit of meadow. Rosalind turned to Robert, her face filled with mischief. "Race you, brother!" She applied her heels to her horse's flank and shot ahead of them. Robert laughed with unrestrained glee and followed after. Will and Philip trailed behind, within sight of the two siblings but not attempting to keep abreast of them. Robert slowly gained on his sister. She squealed as he pulled even with her, and for a distance they rode neck in neck, trading a slight lead back and forth. The city appeared in the distance above the tree line. They were close to home.

And then, quite suddenly, it all went wrong. Rosalind pulled ahead again. In front of them, a fallen tree lay in the open grass between the river and the forest line. On the way out they had circumvented it, but now Rosalind headed directly for it. Her horse cleared it with ease and her brother followed in hot pursuit, intent on matching her step for step. But his horse shied away and with a tortured twisting movement, refused the jump. Robert, clearly surprised, flailed, fighting for control, and was thrown, hitting the ground spread-eagled on his back.

Rosalind, hearing Will's shout behind her as Robert fell, swung her horse around and rode toward her brother, who lay still. She pulled up and dismounted gracefully, still laughing as she spoke: "Couldn't you clear that little log? You must be getting old! You used to…" The Doctor saw the moment when she registered that something was amiss, that her brother was not sitting up to respond to her teasing, indeed was not moving at all. Her step faltered for a moment but then she continued resolutely onward and came to kneel at his side. Even before she touched him, she called: "Will, he's been knocked out. God, the ground is rockier here than I realized. We might need to send back to the castle for a litter." Her voice was concerned, a bit afraid, but still in control.

Will and Philip were by now approaching on foot. Several of the attendants were also nearby. They watched the girl bend over her brother, sliding her hands under his head to raise it and allowing her to study his face. "Rob? Rob, can you hear me?"

Her hair, which had been ripped free from her braids by the force of the wind as they rode, fell forward over her eyes. Impatiently she removed one hand from the back of her brother's head to sweep the hair from her forehead and tuck it behind her ear. Those watching gasped in alarm when they saw that the gesture left a thick smear of blood and tissue on her brow and cheek. She heard the collective intake of breath and looked up, seeing the horror on their faces. Then, still cradling Robert's head in her left hand, she looked down at her right, which was red and clotted with blood.

In a single smooth movement, she rose to her feet and now stared at both her hands. For a long moment she merely looked, her mouth open. Then her eyes transferred back to her brother's still form, and as she registered the implications of what she saw, those horribly stained hands began to shake. She fell back to her knees and leaned over him, cupping his face, whispering now, desperate. "Rob? Rob, wake up. Rob, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have jumped…please, wake up."

Slowly, dazedly, Will began to move, bending over her, pulling her up, holding her in a kneeling position with his hands on her shoulders. "Rosie…Rosie, I think he's badly hurt. Philip?" He turned questioningly to the Doctor, eyes pleading for help. The Doctor stepped up and knelt on Robert's other side, feeling his throat for a pulse. There was none. He reached out and turned the young man's head to the side. The terrible wound was visible even through his blood-soaked hair. He had, by a terrible fluke, landed with his head on a sizable and sharp rock. The back of his skull was crushed. There was nothing to be done.

The Doctor could feel Rosalind's eyes fixed on him. When he raised his gaze to meet hers, she saw the truth he had not yet spoken. A moan forced its way through her clenched teeth. He refused to look away from her, and tears began to spill from her eyes. She shook her head, imploring him. "No. Please, no."

"I'm so sorry," was all he could think of to say.

"No." She rallied, sounding defiant and impatient. "He's going to be married today. He needs to wake up." Tears streaked her face and she wiped them away impatiently, marking her cheeks further with her brother's blood. Will said, "Rosie, let's wash your hands in the river. Then we'll take him back to the castle." The Doctor could tell that the boy was barely holding on to his composure.

"Yes, we'll get him back," she agreed. "Perhaps Master Peter can help. He is a very skilled physician."

"Rosie, he can't help. Rob is…Rob is dead, Rosie."

"No." Her voice was flat. With an imploring glance, Will sent another wordless appeal to Philip, who stepped forward. He clasped her bloody hands and waited for her to look at him.

"He is dead, Rosalind."

Her tears began to flow again and she said in a choked voice, "He is not. He can't be."

"He is. It was an accident. He tried the jump and his head hit a rock when he fell."

"No. You don't understand."

"He is."

She whispered, "He wouldn't leave me. He can't." The Doctor pulled her into a hard embrace, felt her body shaking. She was in shock, he knew. Still holding her tightly with one arm, he gestured to one of the attendants to approach. He gave the man crisp instructions to return to Durham and come back with a litter to collect the Lord Robert's body. The man nodded and, with a sign to one of the other servants, quickly mounted and pounded off toward the city. The Doctor returned his attention to the girl in his arms. She had fisted her stained hands in his tunic, seemingly hanging on for dear life. Her eyes were blank, her breath coming in pants.

"Rosalind, we need to get you back to the city."

She looked up at him with no comprehension. The Doctor grasped her chin and tried to force her to focus on him. Her teeth chattered, but her eyes seemed less dull. "Do you understand me? We're going to get you back home."

She stared at him for a long moment. When she spoke, the formality of titles had fallen away. "Don't you understand, Philip? There is no way back now."

**It had** been a grim hour before the servants returned with the litter. Rosalind had insisted on sitting next to her brother's body, holding his hand in her own, her head resting on her knees. Will sat next to her, his arm around her shoulders, although she was unresponsive when he tried to address her. The Doctor paced in front of them, back and forth at Robert's feet. The only words Rosalind had spoken in the time before the servants returned with the litter were directed at him. "Philip, would you close his eyes? I…I can't." In response, the Doctor had leaned over the body of the young man and gently lowered his lids. Rosalind met his eyes, briefly, in thanks. She then dipped her head again, resting her forehead gently on her brother's hand. She did not appear to be crying, although the Doctor knew it was only a matter of time.

Since she seemed not to need him further at the moment, the Doctor left her in Will's care and walked a few yards to the spot where Robert's horse had reared. It had been a strange accident. It was a large log, but hardly insurmountable—Rosalind had jumped it with ease. Robert was an experienced and skilled rider. What had happened? He followed the line of the horse's hoof prints in the soft earth, trying to find the answer. As he neared the fallen tree, he saw something flash on the ground. He bent to retrieve it and stared at the palm-sized object for a few moments. A Salmarian blaster. Without ammunition, and thus completely without power and harmless. Clearly it had been sitting in that field for a number of weeks, given how it was lodged in the dirt and the trigger was locked up from moisture. Salmarian-crafted metal didn't rust or tarnish, however, so it was still polished to a high shine. It must have been the flash of sunlight on the casing that had caused Robert's horse to startle.

The Doctor felt his knees weaken and he sat down abruptly, holding the small object in his hands. This was the variable for which they had been searching, the thing that had changed the history of Northumberland and of France. The Salmarians were a sophisticated race, explorers in time and space. They were generally peaceful, although they took care to be able to defend themselves, as evidenced by the blaster. They must have arrived, found the planet too primitive to be of interest, and left without incident. If he asked around, he would probably hear stories of bright lights and strange wind patterns in the vicinity when the landing had occurred. The locals would have put it down to fluke weather, if anyone had even noticed what had happened in this remote spot. But the Salmarians had accidentally left behind this little artifact. It probably dropped off a belt clip or out of a pocket. And before it could get buried and lost to history, it had—through the most unlikely chain of unfortunate events—caused the death of Robert and the ruin of the purpose for which the Doctor and Donna had come. A good man was dead. There would be no marriage between Blanche and Robert. And there would be no heir for France. He shut his eyes as a feeling of futility washed over him. Could he have prevented this? This…freak accident? And more importantly, what could he do now?

**In additio****n** to fetching a conveyance for Robert's body, the men Philip had sent back to Durham had of course explained what had happened, and so when Will, Philip, and Rosalind arrived back at the castle with the body of the earl's heir, the courtyard was crowded. At the front of the gathering stood Blanche, tearful and upset, leaning on Donna. The Doctor noted with gratitude that Donna looked shocked but steady. The earl, however, looked pale and wildly angry. As the litter drew up carrying his son's body, he barely looked at it, fixing his eyes instead on his daughter as she dismounted. She had ridden back to the castle sitting behind Will on his horse, clinging to his back, and now she looked vulnerable and frightened; she swayed slightly as she walked, hesitantly approaching her father. Her face, dress, and hands were streaked with blood. She came to stand in front of Edward, trembling as she met his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Father," she whispered. "It was a jump, he fell…" She got no further. The earl brought up his arm in a violent movement and struck her across the face with the back of his hand. The Doctor and Will both started toward her but were not in time as she fell to the cobblestones. Donna reached her first, falling to her knees and wrapping her arms around the girl's shaking form. The earl glared down at his daughter, who looked up at him in despair, her lip split and bleeding from his blow. "You did this. You are the bad wolf, and you have killed my son."

With that, he left the courtyard. And Rosalind, clinging desperately to Donna, her own blood mingling on her face with that of her brother, began to wail.


	8. Chapter 8: The Pain and the Tenderness

**Chapter 8: The Pain and the Tenderness**

**Author's note**: The bishop of Durham in 1200 was a Frenchman, Philip of Poitiers. For convenience, I have switched his name with that of his predecessor, Hugh de Puiset, simply in order to avoid confusion (we don't need two Philips in one story).

**He had** never seen Donna look more exhausted than she did when she came to his chamber several hours later. After the earl's departure, Rosalind, finally giving into her grief, had held on to Donna fiercely and Donna had waved off those who tried to separate the two. "Show me where her rooms are," she had commanded two of the servants hovering helplessly nearby. She had guided Rosalind from the courtyard, shooting dagger glances at all who stared at the weeping girl. The Doctor had never loved Donna more than he did at that moment. And now she was here in front of him, her face gray with fatigue, the lines at the corners of her mouth deeply cut, her eyes red and her hair disheveled. She sat in a chair opposite him and they met each others' gaze. She answered his unspoken question.

"She's asleep. The doctor, or whatever he is—Peter, I think—gave her some kind of drink to help her sleep. God knows what was in it, but she's finally out."

"And before that?"

"What do you think?" Donna's tone was impatient. "The poor lamb just saw the person she loved most die in front of her." She put her head in her hands. "The things we see in this life of yours, Doctor…"

"I know. Thank you so much for taking care of her."

"What else could I do? That poor excuse for a father…" Donna couldn't even finish the sentence, her voice shaking with anger. She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. "What is going to happen to her, Doctor? And what are we going to do? Our whole reason for being here…"

"Yes. I'm trying to figure something out, but I…I don't know right now. I just don't know."

She nodded. "I'm going to eat something and then go back and sit with her. She'll need someone there when she wakes up."

**Rosalind drifted** upward from her drugged sleep, confused and disoriented. She sat up slowly and considered her surroundings. Her room was mostly dark, but it appeared that the sun was only setting if the dim light from her windows was any indication. And yet she felt like she had slept for hours. Her mouth felt woolly, her throat raw, and her head hurt. Was she ill? What had…

And then she remembered. Rob.

The wave of physical pain that went through her was astonishing. She doubled over and opened her mouth to scream, but her tortured throat made almost no noise. In the wake of the strangled sound she emitted, she heard a rustle from across the room and the red-haired woman appeared out of the shadows and rushed to her side. She felt herself enveloped by the woman's arms, which were familiar now—she vaguely recalled that it was this woman who had cared for her, cleaned the blood off of her face, soothed her, after they returned from the ride. The ride when Rob…

Donna was almost in tears herself as she held on to Rosalind's wracked body. She had seen grief like this once before, when her father died and she had tried to look after her mother. She knew there was little she could do for Rosalind at this point besides keep hold of her and wait. The girl sobbed wrenchingly for at least half an hour, and Donna stayed in place, even though her leg began to cramp. When the worst was over, Donna found a cloth and a basin of water and returned to where Rosalind lay, now limp on the pillows. She gently washed the girl's ravaged face, wiping off the mucus and saliva and bathing her swollen eyes and sore lip.

Rosalind focused her full attention on her caregiver for the first time. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't try to talk, love. Just rest. Do you want something to eat or drink?"

"A drink, please."

"You ought to eat too."

"I don't think I could keep anything down." This was said with a wan smile. "I can't stop seeing it on my hands. His blood and…"

"Hush, now. You are clean."

Rosalind gave a little choked laugh, then asked, "What is your name?"

"Donna."

"You came with the king?"

"Yes. And the Lady Blanche."

Rosalind gasped and raised her hand to her cheek. "Blanche! I hadn't thought…what will she do now?" She began to cry again.

"Shhh. It will be all right. Blanche will be fine. Her brother will take care of her." As soon as the words were out of her mouth Donna wished them back. Horrified, she saw Rosalind's face crumple even as she tried to acknowledge Donna's attempt at comfort with a nod. Donna could think of nothing else to do but gather her back into her arms and offer the consolation of physical closeness. It seemed to be what was needed, as Rosalind clung to her until she fell asleep again.

**The next** morning Rosalind's face was appallingly pale, her eyes were red, and her movements as stiff as if she had been beaten, or had fallen from a horse herself. Her lip was swollen and her cheek bruised where her father had clouted her. And yet she insisted, with a quiet dignity that Donna found more shattering than the sobs of the night before, on being dressed and having her hair arranged. Donna, having had a crash course over the last week in dressing medieval noble women, helped her. Rosalind garbed herself more elegantly than Donna had ever seen her, with the possible exception of the night she had danced with Will. Could that only be three days ago? Donna then brought a basin of hot water and a cloth and gently cleaned Rosalind's palms, which were scraped and raw where she had fallen to the cobblestones the morning before.

Donna was afraid all their effort would be for naught when Will appeared at the door soon after Rosalind finished dressing. At the sight of him, Rosalind seemed ready to cry again. She reached out her arms and Will swept her into a crushing embrace. But if it were possible to cry oneself out, it appeared Rosalind had done so, as her cheeks were dry when she raised her head from Will's shoulder. Donna offered to withdraw but Rosalind rejected the idea with a touch of panic in her voice, so she retreated to a chair in the corner of the room, trying to give the two some privacy. The foster siblings sat side-by-side on the chaise near the window, holding hands and seemingly feeling no need to speak.

After a long while, Will sighed heavily and said, "I need to see your father, Rosie."

"Yes." She didn't let go of his hands immediately, but after a moment she gathered herself and stood. He rose beside her and touched her face, gently.

"It wasn't your fault."

"No?"

"No. I can't imagine why the horse refused that jump, or what happened with Rob. There's no reason why he shouldn't have made it. It was just…a terrible accident."

She nodded. "Don't make me cry again, Will."

He hesitated. "Do you want me to say anything to your father?"

"What's the use? He has always blamed me for my mother's death, and now Rob…"

Will seemed to find nothing to say in response to this. He kissed her hard on the forehead and left quickly. Donna thought she saw tears on his face as he ducked out of the room. She turned to find that Rosalind's back was to her. She was at the window, her knuckles white on the stone of the frame. Donna burst out, "He's wrong!"

Rosalind turned. "I'm sorry?"

"Your father. He's wrong. He shouldn't blame you for your mother or your brother." Donna realized she was probably stepping over countless boundaries of social custom in speaking so frankly but she couldn't bring herself to care. She had very quickly become deeply protective of the younger woman.

Rosalind smiled, the first genuine smile Donna had seen since the accident. "You know, Donna, you are a remarkably comforting person."

Donna snorted. "I'm nothing special."

Rosalind moved to her and put a hand on her arm. "No, I am in earnest. Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done last night without you."

"Don't you worry about it, love."

There was a knock at the door and the two women paused for a moment. Rosalind closed her eyes and sighed. Donna said, "Whoever it is, I can send them away. You don't need to entertain people today."

"No. Let them in, it's fine." Rosalind squared her shoulders.

Donna went to the door and opened it to reveal Blanche and Philip. Donna stood back and let them cross the threshold. The Doctor allowed Blanche to enter first, and she crossed immediately to where Rosalind stood. Rosalind tried to maintain her poise, but her nervousness at facing her brother's bereaved fiancée was evident in her face. The Doctor and Donna were also on edge, and they both felt a rush of gratitude to Blanche when she reached out without preamble and pulled the younger girl into an embrace. They clung to each other for a long moment before Blanche stepped back and spoke. "Lady Rosalind, my loss is great, but yours is greater. I am so sorry."

"You are gracious to say so. I…I don't know what to say. Your marriage, the alliance…" her voice trailed away.

Blanche lowered her voice so that her words were for Rosalind alone. "There is no reason to think the alliance will fail. It is still in the interests of my brother and your father. And my brother will find another marriage for me. Those are rarely lacking for a royal woman. But…I doubt that whoever he finds for me will be as kind and as gentle as your brother."

Rosalind bent her head and a tear escaped down her cheek. Blanche grasped her hands and spoke directly to the girl's fears. "I do not blame you, Rosalind. My brother told me what happened. It was an accident."

"Yes." Rosalind snuffled and tried to bring herself under control.

"And your father…he did not behave gallantly toward you." This was, for Blanche, clearly the highest of insults. Rosalind laughed, finding her phrasing comical even as she appreciated the sentiment. "No, he did not. Thank you, my lady."

They sat in silence for a moment, until both of their gazes were drawn to Philip and Donna, standing in the opposite corner of the large room, their heads bent together. Blanche said, "I hope Donna has been helpful to you? I have found her company diverting."

"Yes, she has been wonderful."

"My brother is usually so discreet about his mistresses; he must be fond of her indeed to consort with her so openly. But I admit, I don't mind it in this case."

Rosalind was suddenly very still. "Donna is…the king's mistress?"

"Oh yes, didn't you know?"

She shook her head, but quickly strove to recover herself. What did it matter, really? "I suppose I didn't really think about it. I should have assumed." She changed the subject, not wanting to discuss the issue further with Blanche. "How long will you stay?"

"We will of course remain for your brother's funeral. Philip has told me so. After that, I have no idea. My brother will go to see your father shortly, and I imagine they will determine that."

As the two young women sat, their heads bent together, on the chaise near the window, the Doctor and Donna conferred near the door.

"How is she?"

"A trouper. Unbelievable."

"Has her father been here?"

Donna snorted. "No. Just Will Forster, and now you two. Blanche seems well."

"She is holding up admirably. I think she is genuinely sad, but after all, she didn't really know the lad well. And she has been trained to behave courteously. Unlike some." He paused. "Speaking of which, I need to go and see the earl. I'm trying to figure out what to say."

"I've got some ideas, if you want."

His mouth quirked. "To save the alliance, Donna, not to rip a strip off him."

Donna harrumphed.

"Look, Philip set up this marriage to make this alliance. I wasn't able to prevent the marriage from…not happening, but I can try to save the alliance."

"Did you ever figure out what happened to Robert?"

"I think so. I found a piece of alien tech on the ground near where the horse reared. I think it startled him."

"Alien tech? Put there intentionally? Did it…go off, or something?"

"No, no, no. Just left behind. Probably by accident. It's technology from a peaceful race of time- and space-travelers, most likely on a reconnaissance mission. The sunlight flashed off it and startled the horse, so he refused the jump."

Donna stared at him. "You mean to say that this whole terrible business, with all the people who have been hurt and with repercussions down the centuries, was caused by some Martians showing up and dropping some litter?"

"Well, Donna, not Martians—why do you always call all of us Martians, anyway? And 'litter' implies they intentionally left it here, which I don't think is right…" He was in mid-ramble when he saw the look on her face, and he shut his mouth with a click, opening it again to say only, "Yes, basically."

Donna was still processing this revelation, shaking her head in disbelief, when Blanche and Rosalind stood and approached them. Donna could sense that the Doctor wanted a moment alone with Rosalind so she diverted Blanche with a question and the Doctor took Rosalind's arm, guiding her back toward the window. He touched her bruised cheek gently. "I won't ask how you're feeling. I can only imagine."

She nodded. "Can it be only two days ago that we were talking about Acre and voyages in the Mediterranean? If only we could travel back in time and never go on that damned ride."

He clasped her hands, speechless.

"Thank you, my lord, for what you did yesterday. Staying with me and Rob, and…oh, everything."

He inclined his head, noticing that the formality of her address was back in place. "I wish I could have done more. I wish…I wish I could fix this for you."

She gave a small smile. "Even the king of France cannot fix this." After a moment, she asked, "Did you find anything to indicate why Rob's horse behaved as it did?"

"What?"

"When we were waiting for the litter, I saw you go to the place that the horse reared. Did you find anything?"

He had not been aware that she had noticed that. Sharp girl, to be so observant even in the midst of such a terrible situation. "No. The ground was rocky, so perhaps his hoof hit a stone and it hurt him. I'm not sure we'll ever know, Rosalind. It was just an accident. No one's fault. Not Robert's and not yours."

Her breath caught on a small sob, but she shook her head viciously and regained her composure. "You should tell my father that," she said, with a watery attempt at humor.

"I shall. I'm about to go and meet with him." It'll be all I can do not to punch the man for laying a hand on you, he thought to himself.

"I imagine you will be leaving before too very long."

Was that regret he heard in her voice, or only wishful thinking on his part? "We will stay for some time, for the funeral and so on." He paused. "I don't want to distress you, my lady, but can I ask you a question? Your father…he called you 'bad wolf'. What did that signify?"

"Hmm? Oh. Just a nickname he coined for me once, when he was angry with me about something. Do you know, I can't even remember what it was any more. Our family crest is the black wolf, as you may have seen."

"Ah."

She gave him a formal smile and began to move away. He stopped her and said, "Lady Rosalind, I want to say…I only knew your brother for a few days, but I have rarely met a man I liked more readily. He was intelligent and honorable. He loved you very much. I was happy to leave my sister in his care. I…I am so sorry he is gone."

Her eyes had gone wide as she listened to his short speech. When he finished, she reached out her hand to him. He took it. She said, "You cannot imagine what that means to me. Thank you."

He kissed her hand, and with a nod at Donna, left to find the earl.

**Walking in** the direction of the earl's quarters, the Doctor gathered his thoughts. He had an explanation now for the "bad wolf" comment, which, even amidst all the horror of yesterday, had unsettled him. A perfectly natural explanation; in fact, it made a lot more sense for Rosalind to be a "bad wolf", given her family's crest, than for Rose to be. And yet… He could not shake his unease at the parallels that kept arising between Rosalind and Rose. It seemed…more than accidental.

He knew he was in dangerous emotional territory. He knew it. He had been deeply affected by Rosalind before the accident, his mind drawn to her intelligence and independence, his body reacting to her beauty. Now that the worst had happened, a fierce protectiveness toward her was added. A potent mix indeed. When Edward had struck her across the face in the courtyard of the castle the day before, it had taken every bit of discipline he had not to leap on the man. He had ground down on his anger, reminding himself that for Philip of France, seeing a man strike his daughter or wife would not have been unusual. He knew from dipping into Philip's feelings at that moment that the king would have found the earl's behavior deeply distasteful, even outrageous, but Philip would not have seen it as his duty to interfere, at least not in public. And Edward had just lost his son and heir. The Doctor had managed to recover his equilibrium when he watched Donna take charge of Rosalind and lead her from the prying eyes of the crowd. He had not seen her again until this morning, when Blanche had insisted that they pay a visit. Rosalind had looked so weary, so grief-stricken, and her face was bruised from her father's blow. The urge to take her into his arms, to ease her hurt, to make things better, was so strong…

And yet. He was a Time Lord. His responsibility was to preserve the history of France. The obvious way to do that—to ensure the success of the marriage between Blanche and Robert—was no longer possible. So now, what to do?

These musings brought him to the door of Edward's quarters. The guard outside bowed and disappeared in order to announce him, returning a moment later to shepherd him inside. When he entered, he found that Edward was not alone. In a chair in the corner was Will Forster, whom the Doctor acknowledged with a nod and small smile. Sitting across from the earl at a long table that dominated the outer room of his living quarters was a small man with gray cropped hair, richly dressed in clerical garb, with an ornate gold ring on his left ring finger. Edward did not bother to rise when the Doctor entered, but this other man did so, fixing the newcomer with an interested gaze. Edward spoke, "My lord Philip, this is Hugh of Puiset, the bishop of Durham, lately returned from London. Hugh, this is the king of France."

Aha, the Doctor thought as he bowed in greeting. The bishop who supports John. The one who, according to Rosalind, had previously excommunicated Edward and Robert as a political move. The Frenchman who was now an English bishop, feuding with his local English lord. The man who had refused to officiate at the marriage mass of Robert and Blanche. Why then was he here, in the earl's private chamber?

"I came," the bishop stated in a cultivated and silky voice, "to offer pastoral comfort to the lord Edward at this tragic time."

A slight smirk on the earl's face spoke volumes about his opinion on the comfort being provided.

"For you too, my lord king, it is a terrible day. The marriage, the alliance with your country, ruined…"

The Doctor felt a spike of annoyance at the man's opportunism, but opened his mind to Philip's within him, drawing on the king's ability in politics and negotiation. Philip, as usual, opted for blandness at the outset while he assessed his opponent's aims. "So kind of you, my lord bishop. I'm sure your comfort is most welcome. The loss of Robert is indeed a tragedy for all concerned."

"I also came to discuss the funeral arrangements with Lord Edward…"

Here the earl interrupted. "My boy will be buried in the cathedral. I'll have no more discussion of this."

The bishop spread his hands. "To have a former excommunicate buried in the church of holy Cuthbert seems hardly proper…"

Will sprang from his chair in the corner. "You ordered that excommunication strictly to please John. Rob did nothing wrong!"

"Will." Edward's tone was one of command. The boy slumped back into his seat. The earl eyed the bishop. "Hugh, that excommunication was overturned by the pope himself. You know, and I know, why you did it in the first place. Will's absolutely right. So what do you really want?"

It was, the Doctor thought, the first time he had seen the earl in full command of his position and his faculties. It was a bitter irony that only now, with Robert dead, could he see the son in the father.

"Give up the alliance with France. Return your full loyalty to your king. I have brought with me from the south a letter from King John. Should you agree to the terms he proposes, he will hold you in his heart as a loyal vassal. And I will bury your son in a place of honor in the cathedral before the week is out. The saints will guard your son's soul in the next life, and you can be at peace."

The earl shook his head. "I knew John would be behind this, you toady. He fears this alliance between Northumberland and France. It is but another blow to his shaky throne."

The bishop's tone was cold. "It is neither John nor I who have shown our disapproval of this alliance, but rather God. Your son, an accomplished rider, is dead in a freak riding accident. What other interpretation can you put on the events of yesterday?"

The Doctor thought that this was probably not the company in which to bring up the Salmarian blaster. Instead, he stepped forward and spoke. "My lord Hugh, I know you speak as the representative of your king. You are only doing your duty in presenting this choice to my lord of Northumberland." The bishop bowed his head in acknowledgment but said nothing. "Even if," Philip continued, "it would be distasteful in the eyes of some to use a man's dead son as a bargaining chip. But such tactics have rarely troubled John." Hugh's eyes narrowed but still he did not speak.

Philip met and held the bishop's gaze. "Now you might complete your duty by communicating this to your king, when next you write to him." His voice did not rise or betray any emotion, but all eyes in the room were fixed on him as he paused for effect. "France stands with Northumberland. The tragic accident," he put the emphasis on the last word, "of yesterday changes nothing. The alliance will hold. And if John threatens my ally, he will have the force of the French army to reckon with—an army against which, as you know, he has had singularly little success. What is more, Robert will be buried in the cathedral. With you officiating at the funeral mass. And if either you or John find that your conscience objects to this, I suggest you seek reassurance from the pope. I feel confident that he will allay your fears. He is, as you know, a close ally of mine as well."

The bishop remained silent for a long moment. He was not a stupid man and he understood both the spoken and unspoken threats Philip had just uttered. The Doctor watched him work through the problem in his head, sort through the various scenarios, and come to a decision. He turned to the earl. "My lord Edward, would two days hence suit you for the funeral? As it happens, there is a place of honor in the south aisle of the cathedral. It would be my privilege if your son were to join the community of saints and great men buried in my church."

The earl gave a tight smile of assent. The bishop nodded crisply and, with a gesture of farewell to the three men, left the room.

Will stared at Philip in open-mouthed admiration. The earl's expression was harder to read, but he stood and clasped the king's hand. "My lord, I thank you."

"It was my pleasure. I meant what I said. I wish for this alliance to stand." The earl relaxed visibly, but Philip was not finished. "We will discuss the details at more length at another time, when your grief is not so raw. But I have one condition you should know about now, my lord earl. It is non-negotiable."

"And what is that?"

"You will never lay a finger on the Lady Rosalind again."


	9. Chapter 9: The Funeral and the Fallout

**Chapter 9: The Funeral and the Fallout**

**The day **of Robert's funeral, the weather seemed to grieve with the crowd assembled in the courtyard of Durham Castle. It was dreary and chill, the clouds low in the sky. Rain occasionally fell, never in an outright downpour but rather in a sullen drip that rendered everything damp. The body lay on a covered bier, wrapped tightly in linen and draped with a fine silk covering showing the wolf of Northumberland. Servants waited to carry the bier the short distance to the cathedral. Behind it stood Philip and Blanche, Will and the Edward, Rosalind and Donna, along with numerous other followers of the earl who had come to pay their respects to his fallen son.

Donna watched Rosalind closely. That morning, emerging from her bath and seeing the dark clothes that Donna had laid out for her to wear to the funeral, the girl had collapsed in tears. She had been unable to stomach even the light breakfast that Donna brought. But now she appeared to have regained her composure. Donna had laced her into an austere black gown with a square neckline and she wore, for the first time in Donna's acquaintance with her, a veil covering her braids. She looked pale and weary in her severe clothes but her eyes were dry and she held her head high under her father's gaze. "Good girl," Donna murmured to herself. And indeed, the earl seemed to be giving his daughter a wide berth, although his eyes did linger on her more than usual.

The Doctor had not spoken with Rosalind alone before the procession got underway, but she had nodded at him and managed a small smile before taking Will's arm and following her father in the grim task of trailing her brother's body to its final resting place. The streets were lined with the people of the city, mostly silent as they watched the body pass. The men doffed their caps and the women bowed their heads. Robert had been well loved by the residents of Durham and this showed in the respect they paid him now. Rosalind had paused on occasion during the procession to accept the condolences of more prominent residents, clasping hands and taking flowers, which she handed off to servants. The people seemed fond of her, too, the Doctor noted, despite her eccentricities. He heard on more than one occasion murmurs of "God bless you, my lady," from the crowd.

In the hours that followed, first at the funeral mass at the high altar of the cathedral and then at the entombment in the south aisle, Rosalind had maintained a dignified silence. Tears streaked her face on occasion, and the Doctor had seen the tightness of her hold on Will's arm, but she had maintained a remarkable level of composure. His estimation of her grit and resiliency rose still further.

When the party returned to the castle they had scattered in different directions. About an hour later, having eaten a light meal, the Doctor followed a hunch and retraced his steps of a few days before to the small room where Rosalind did her writing. The door was open, so he entered and stood facing the window and the desk. He would hardly have recognized the room had her desk not sat in the same place. The bright sunlight of the earlier day was gone, but more than that, the room was in disarray. An inkpot lay smashed on the floor next to the desk, with a pool of black ink slowly oozing further outward from the pile of shards. Sheets of parchment, some written on and some blank, littered the floor. The high stool on which she sat to write was overturned. Contemplating the mess, and thinking the room empty, the Doctor was startled when a voice spoke behind him.

"I thought work might help distract me. I'm afraid it did not."

He whirled and saw Rosalind sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room, her back tucked into the angle in the wall behind the door. She had changed out of her funeral attire into a plain gray dress, which was now stained down the front with ink. She had obviously been crying very recently; her cheeks were still wet.

Without a word he walked to where she huddled and slid down the wall to sit next to her. He reached out and took her hand, saying nothing. For a moment her hand remained stiff but then her fingers closed over his and squeezed tightly. He felt her begin to tremble and heard her sniffle with renewed tears. He extracted his hand from her grip and put his arm around her, pulling her close. She buried her face in the shoulder of his tunic and wept.

After a while she quieted and lifted her head from him. She retrieved what appeared to be a much-used cloth handkerchief from the floor next to her, wiped her face and then dabbed at his shoulder. "I made you damp."

"I have a plentiful supply of tunics. I am the king, after all."

She laughed softly, a wonderful sound to hear, and nodded. "I'm sorry to have…broken down in front of you."

He waited to answer until she raised her eyes to his. "I came to find you in your sanctuary. I invaded your privacy, for which I should be the one apologizing. If I was able to be of some comfort to you in doing so, then that is my privilege."

She smiled. "You always seem to know what to say."

"Donna might disagree with you."

Her gaze sharpened as she considered this remark, but all she said was, "Donna has been a remarkable help and comfort to me. She is a wonderful woman."

"Yes."

Rosalind sighed and stood up, and he followed her. He said, "I will leave you in peace, my lady," and turned to leave.

"Wait, please." He turned back. Her hands were clasped, fingers working. She looked up at him. "There is something I want to say." He waited in silence while she composed her thoughts. "Will told me what you did. Putting the bishop in his place, reasserting the alliance, and ensuring Rob's burial in the church."

"It wasn't…" he began.

"But it was," she said firmly. "It is a wonderful thing to have done. It would…it would have grieved me greatly, and my father too, if Rob had not been able to rest in the cathedral, and I know Bishop Hugh would have tried to prevent it, or at least forced Father to make major concessions to get it. So, I wanted to thank you." He started to shake his head but she reached out and put her hand on his cheek, holding him still and staring into his eyes. "Please, let me say this. Thank you."

The light touch of her fingers on his skin held him immobile. Finally, he nodded. "I was glad to help."

She dropped her hand and turned away, moving to the window. He wondered if Will had also told her of his threat to the earl about her, but she said nothing more and he was hesitant to bring it up. But neither did he want to leave her.

"I wish I could do more for you, my lady."

She turned, looking surprised. "For me? You have already done so much."

"What will happen to you, once we leave here?"

"That will be my father's decision. Without Rob here to act as a buffer between us, I imagine he will want to be rid of me. So I suppose that a marriage is in my near future."

"Your father has no heir now."

"He has a nephew. I imagine he is happy that he does not need to rely on me to produce an heir for our house." She smirked. "He would probably say I would fail to do so out of pure contrariness."

"And what do you want to happen, my lady? If you had the choice?"

Her eyebrows lifted. "I do not have the choice. It is not a worthwhile question to consider."

He took her hand again, without thinking. "But if you did?"

She looked at him for a long moment, parting her lips as if to answer, but then checking herself. Instead she said, "You are neither my father nor my confessor, my lord. You need not worry about my fate."

At that dismissal, he nodded and left her. But not before an idea had occurred to him.

**That night**, Rosalind sat upright in her bed, reclining on pillows propped behind her back and watching Donna move around the room, hanging her clothes and generally making the room neat and comfortable for the evening. She closed her eyes momentarily but knew that she could not sleep, at least not yet. However exhausted her body was—and her head was practically spinning from fatigue—her mind was racing. She focused on Donna and decided to raise the topic she had been wondering about for days.

"The Lady Blanche told me you are the king's mistress."

Donna stopped short and gaped at her. To gain time to formulate a response, she busied herself with smoothing out the dress Rosalind had worn that afternoon, which had been returned from the washing with the ink stain faded but still visible. Her first instinct, of course, was to tell Rosalind the truth about her relationship with the Doctor. But she knew she could not do so without consulting him. It was her cover story, the reason why she was a lady-in-waiting despite being part of no known family. It was why she was able to move in the company of Blanche and Philip and, for that matter, Rosalind herself. What alternate explanation could there be for her presence?

Meanwhile, Rosalind interpreted her silence as an indication that she had taken offense. "I'm sorry, Donna, I shouldn't have…"

She sighed and turned back to the bed, deciding to lie as little as possible while still maintaining the pretence. "It's fine, sweetheart. Yes, the king and I are…close friends."

Rosalind gave a small smile. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means we are fond of each other. We enjoy each other's company. It is not a…great romantic love for either of us."

"Have you had a great love, Donna?"

Tears unexpectedly blurred Donna's eyes. She blinked to clear them and went to sit at the edge of Rosalind's bed. "I thought I did. Years ago, now. But he…did not feel the same."

"Did you want to marry him?"

"I did, yes."

Rosalind reached out and laid her hand over Donna's. Both women were silent for a time, and then Rosalind asked, "And the king? Was there someone he loved in that way?"

A wave of panic hit Donna. What had the Doctor told the girl? What should she say? She settled for the irrefutable: "At his age, the king has had many experiences."

Rosalind seemed satisfied with this, nodding slowly. Then she said, "He is a very impressive man."

"Yes. But just a man, with faults and weaknesses." Donna felt a pang of unease. Was the girl, bereaved and vulnerable as she was, developing a crush on a man—well, an alien—who would be leaving soon?

Rosalind did not pursue this line of conversation, however. She said instead, "I never expected to have a great love. I thought it would be enough to love my brother, and help him rule in any way I could, and love his children when he had them. But now, not even that is possible."

"Will your father find a marriage for you?"

"It is likely, yes."

"Any man would be lucky to have you," Donna said fiercely.

Rosalind laughed. "Oh, Donna. You are marvelous, really."

"It's true!"

The girl shook her head. "Sometimes you seem…lifted out of time, Donna. You don't seem to realize how different I am, how strange. But the truth is that some men would put up with almost anything to cement an alliance with the earl of Northumberland. So, if my father turns his full attention to the problem of a marriage for me, it will undoubtedly occur. I just hope…I hope it's not someone too old or too controlling."

"What about a convent? Blanche told me that nuns often are scholars, which I thought might appeal to you."

"I have considered it. There is much to admire in that life. Some of the convents have amazing libraries. But…" She paused and shook her head. "To be penned in, shut away from the world...I don't think I could do that. They don't ride, they don't even go outside the walls of their cloister very often. I'd go mad."

"You want to travel?"

"As I told the king, I have given up on the idea of traveling very far. But in my life now I can still ride each morning and enjoy the fields and the forests. To be placed in a convent…no, I think not. Luckily, my father is not particularly pious and I imagine he'd rather have an alliance than a nun for a daughter." Rosalind sighed and settled back on the pillows. "It may all turn out for the best, Donna. Let's not fuss about it now. I'm tired, and I think I might be able to sleep."

Donna very much doubted it would turn out for the best, but she did not say so. Rather she laid a light kiss on Rosalind's forehead and then rose to complete her tasks.

**The next **morning the Doctor emerged in the courtyard of the castle and found a strange sight before his eyes. Rosalind stood, dressed in her familiar riding gear, with Thunder saddled and ready. She looked prepared to mount the horse but instead stood frozen at the animal's side, with both her hands flat on his withers and her gaze down. The Doctor could see even from a distance that she was worrying her lower lip between her teeth and her breathing rate was elevated. He looked around for the earl or any other obvious cause for her upset, but saw nothing. Then it dawned on him that she was probably contemplating her first ride since Robert's death. Riding had brought her such joy, but now it would always be laced with the pain of her loss. He approached her and touched her gently on the shoulder. "Rosalind?"

She turned her head and offered him a wry smile. "Hello."

"Are you well?"

"Not really. I want to go for a ride, but all I can think of is what happened. I can't seem to…" Her voice trailed away.

He nodded. "I think the first step is to go for a very short ride, just to get it over with. You will probably find it much easier the next time. Why don't I help you on and you can take a quick turn and come back?"

She nodded agreement and gripped his proffered hand. He helped her into the saddle and then let go of her, his fingers trailing over hers. He said, "Just go around the castle, slowly if you want. I'll wait for you here."

She tapped the horse's flank with her heels and started off at an easy pace. Turning right out of the castle gate, she disappeared from view. The Doctor went to sit on the steps leading to the living quarters.

In the twenty minutes that she was gone he turned over in his brain the idea that had occurred to him the previous day, assessing its worth from various angles. Donna would be upset, certainly, but he thought he could explain it to her in such a way that she would eventually agree. The earl…well, the Doctor found it hard to care excessively about his opinion, but he thought that the benefits of the idea would outweigh the negatives in Edward's mind. And Rosalind herself? What would she think?

He was roused from his reverie by the sound of horse's hooves approaching from the left. He smiled as she entered the courtyard at a trot and pulled up to a stop. She slid from the saddle as he came up beside her.

"How was it?"

She turned to him and he was startled to see tears on her face. "Rosalind! Did something…"

"No, no, it's fine. It's just…I'm so glad to be riding again." She scrubbed her face with her sleeve.

A groom came to retrieve the horse and return him to the stable. She let her hand pass caressingly along the animal's flank as he was led away. Then she turned back to the Doctor.

"I seem always to be crying lately."

"That's understandable."

"And I seem to find myself frequently in your debt, your Grace."

He shook his head. "There is no debt."

She stepped closer and reached up to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Nonetheless, I am grateful. For everything." She turned to leave. After she had gone a few paces, he called out to her.

"Lady Rosalind, may I speak with you later today? In private?"

She looked puzzled. "Of course, if you wish, my lord. I think that after luncheon I will be occupied with trying to restore order to my writing room. You can find me there, if that is agreeable to you."

"I will do that."

She regarded him for a long moment but could glean no hint of his purpose, and so she turned back toward the stairs and disappeared up them.


	10. Chapter 10: Questions and Revelations

**Chapter 10: Questions and Revelations**

**He did** indeed find her in her writing room late that afternoon. He thought—not for the first time—that the room was exceedingly well-chosen. It faced west and at this hour was flooded with golden light. When he knocked lightly she called for him to enter. He did so, closing the door behind him and turning to find her seated cross-legged on the floor with small piles of parchment around her. "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning up the mess I made yesterday. I have all these half-finished books that I'm in the process of copying. I tend to get excited about a text and make some progress and then I read something new and start that…" She shook her head in gentle frustration, deposited a final sheet on a stack, and looked up at him. She smiled and held out her hand, asking to be helped up. He pulled her to her feet. "Do you wish to sit, my lord?" She indicated the chair behind him.

"Yes, and you must sit beside me." In an echo of the day when he had first found her here and told her of his travels, he sat in the chair and she perched on her writing stool, although before she sat he pulled the stool considerably closer, so that she was within reach. She waited for him to speak.

"Lady Rosalind, you know how important the alliance between France and Northumberland is."

"Of course. It allows you to pressure John on two fronts and forces him to commit resources to the north, which cannot then be used in France. For my father, it provides leverage against John and access to trading routes deep into the Continent and the Mediterranean."

He grinned. "What a tactician you are. Yes. And ensuring all of that was the purpose of the marriage between Blanche and your brother."

Her eyes dropped and she nodded, twisting her hands in her lap.

"It is crucial for me to maintain this alliance despite the tragedy of your brother's death. Your father and I agree on this in principle although we have yet to discuss the details of a treaty. That is why I am here. I want to discuss those details with you first."

She looked confused. "With me? But you know I have no influence with my father. You'd be better off discussing them with Will if you want an effective ally to advocate with him."

"I don't want to discuss them with Will. I want to discuss them with you, because they primarily concern you."

Now she simply stared at him.

"The marriage between your brother and my sister cannot occur. But a marriage is one of the best ways to ensure the stability of an alliance. I would like to use another marriage to do so."

Her owlish gaze was disconcerting, but he persevered: "I would like to marry you, Rosalind. If you are willing."

He didn't know what he expected in response to this declaration, but he did not expect absolute silence. She regarded him as if he were some kind of exotic creature, interesting but unpredictable and potentially dangerous. He had to stop himself from smiling in pleasure at the sight of her mind working as she considered the implications of his words. Finally, she spoke.

"I have not known you long, my lord, but in that time I have never seen you be cruel. I assume, therefore, that this is not some kind of…misplaced jest on your part."

"It is not."

She arched an eyebrow. "Have you then gone mad, since I saw you this morning?"

"What? No! Why would you say that?"

"Why would you want to marry me?"

"I've explained…"

"Kings marry the daughters of kings! For pragmatic reasons, to increase their power. You're not thinking straight."

"Kings marry to cement alliances with powerful families. My first wife was the daughter of a count, and I married her to ensure the loyalty of her family and to bring their land under more direct control. This," he gestured between them, "is also a great alliance. I was giving my sister to Robert for that reason." He heard her intake of breath at the sound of her brother's name, but he pushed on. "As you so astutely put it, this alliance puts pressure on England on two fronts. It is invaluable to me. I'm afraid, my dear, that my offer is deeply pragmatic. I am in full possession of my wits, I assure you."

She shook her head, trying to take it in. "But…if you married me I'd be queen of France."

"Indeed you would."

"Well, there you are! I can't be queen!"

"Why ever not?"

"Because! Because I'm not a great lady. I can't perform all the courtly duties of a queen. I'm…ink-stained and perpetually mussed and…"

He put a hand out and lifted her chin to face him. "You, Rosalind, can learn to do anything you put your mind to. You will be a marvelous queen."

"No."

"You will."

"Why me?" He opened his mouth to speak and she held up her hand. "I heard what you said, but there would be other ways to secure this alliance. Trading privileges, hostages, oaths, payments of land or of gold. Why would you choose to marry me?"

He should have known that she would not accept the easy explanation, but rather would demand the whole truth. So he gave her another piece of it. "I have developed…great esteem for you, Lady Rosalind."

She stood abruptly and turned, walking to the window. She said nothing for several minutes. Finally, she spoke without turning to face him. "I'm not her, you know."

"I'm sorry?"

"Whoever it is that I remind you of."

He gaped open-mouthed at her back for several beats, before gathering himself enough to say, "Wh-what?"

Now she turned to look at him with those penetrating amber eyes fixed on his. "When we first met, in the courtyard of the castle, you looked as if you had seen a ghost. You looked…almost frightened of me. And since then the attention you paid me has been…greater than it should be. From the very beginning. Rob noticed it even before I did; in fact, I brushed it off when he remarked on it. But he was right. But why would that be, my lord? Why would the king of France turn pale as a sheet at the appearance of an insignificant younger child of a potential ally? A girl, at that? Why would he then spend so much time getting to know her? The logical explanation for all of this is that I remind you of someone. Someone you loved."

His mind spun, but he could not seem to find anything to say, and after a few moments she continued, "You told me that you did not love your wife in that way. And Donna said that although she is your mistress, you are not in love with her." His mind boggled at the implication that she had had a conversation with Donna on that subject, but she did not seem to notice, pressing on inexorably. "I imagine, then, that there was another woman. Someone you loved and lost. And I resemble her in some way—I suppose it must be physically, given your reaction when you first saw me."

She drew herself straight. "But I am not her. I am myself. And I…" Her voice stumbled and she looked down for a moment before raising her eyes to his again. "How did you put it? I have 'developed esteem' for you as well. If we were to marry, you would come to realize that I am no replacement for her. And then I would see the disappointment in your eyes, and that would be painful for me. And humiliating."

He simply stared at her. She was so marvelous, so brilliant. How had she figured all of this out? And when? After a few moments, she took his silence as an admission that she was correct and, with a bitter smile, turned away from him again. No. He had to explain at least some of what had happened and what had changed for him. Even if it meant that he would have to give Philip memories from his own mind, memories of Rose, he had to do this, to make Rosalind understand her own worth. He stood and went to her, turning her gently by the shoulders, making her face him.

"You are right," he began. She nodded grimly, but he stopped her with a gesture. "In part. You do look like…you look remarkably like a woman I knew when I was younger. A woman I loved, who is now gone."

"And what was her name?"

Just as he had once told Donna, he now told her: "Her name was Rose."

She gave a small, choked laugh and he realized that that fact had confirmed every one of her worst suspicions, so he continued hastily. "And yes, when I first saw you, I thought time had reversed itself, or that a miracle had happened. But of course I quickly realized that it must be a fluke that you resemble her so closely, physically. I knew it could not possibly be her. So I resolved to avoid you, to minimize our conversations. As you rightly say, you were not significant to my reasons for being here. I thought I could just ignore your presence. But then, I was seated next to you at dinner that first night."

She was listening to him now, standing motionless, although her eyes remained fixed downward so he could not read her easily.

"I only spoke to you to be polite, but immediately you captured my attention. And as I came to know you better, I…" He stopped. What could he say? How could he explain it? Before he had fully thought it out, he blurted, "I fell in love with you."

She gasped. He felt a moment of panic that he had admitted too much, but then a series of images flashed through his brain. Rosalind, her eyes sparking, defying her father. Riding. Hunched over her manuscripts. Rapt as he described faraway lands. Pale and grief-stricken but upright at her beloved brother's funeral. He realized it was the truth, and he felt the relief of telling her.

Rosalind, however, shook her head. "You fell in love with an echo."

"No. I fell in love with the brilliant and beautiful woman who is here in front of me."

She kept her gaze resolutely on the ground.

"The brilliant, beautiful, stubborn woman." This earned him an unwilling smile. "Rosalind, think. Even if you don't believe me about how I feel. Even if you don't feel the same way. What awaits you here but a lonely life on the edge of the civilized world?"

Now she lifted her chin. "There are things worse than loneliness."

He looked in her eyes. "Are there?" She nodded resolutely, and he asked, "such as?"

"Being pitied."

"No one who knows you could ever pity you."

"False hope."

And then suddenly he understood. "I am not lying to you, Rosalind. About what I will do, or how I feel."

She brought her fingers to her temples. "Oh, God. I don't know what to do."

He took her left hand and held it tightly in both his own. "It comes down to a choice. You can stay here with your father and marry whomever he chooses." She looked away from him, but her eyes returned quickly when he kissed her knuckles, in imitation of his gesture from a few days before. He then turned her hand over and stroked her palm lightly, causing her lips to part. He continued, "Or, you could come with me. Be the queen." He kissed the pad of her index finger. "Become the patroness of the scholars and artists at the court in Paris." He kissed the next finger. "Travel with me wherever I go." And the next finger. "Even to the shores of the Mediterranean." He could feel her trembling now, and he released her hand and stepped back. She watched him and he said again, "It is your choice."

The beginnings of a smile curved her lips. She said, "My father will not agree."

"Why not? To ensure the alliance and be rid of you at the same time? What man would not jump at the chance?"

And now she grinned at him openly. "And are you certain you want to saddle yourself with such an difficult woman, my lord?"

He returned her smile, cheeky now. "Oh yes." He leaned in very slowly, gauging her reaction and watching to see if she drew away. She did not; rather her eyes fluttered closed and he caught her lips lightly with his. He intended it to be brief, but their mouths clung together and the kiss deepened. Her arms came around his neck and his went around her waist and they remained wrapped in each other for several long moments. He finally gathered the mental faculties to break the kiss and step back. He felt short of air and his body wanted nothing more than to pull her to him again. But it would not be appropriate at this time to do more than this.

She looked luscious in the light of the setting sun, her eyes remaining closed for a long moment, clearly savoring the kiss. When her eyes drifted open he asked, "Was that your first kiss?"

"No."

Jealousy flared in him, as he thought immediately of Will. She must have seen it in his face, for a mischievous look appeared on hers. "When I was eight, one of the stable boys dared me to kiss him."

He laughed. "Wicked woman." After a pause in which they considered each other, both smiling a bit drunkenly, he said, "So I take it you accept my offer? You will marry me?"

"You are in earnest?"

"Absolutely."

"Then yes. I will marry you."

He could not help it. He kissed her again. Then he pulled himself away, still holding her shoulders. "I will go and see your father immediately." She nodded. "Meet me here tomorrow morning? I will come with news."

He left the room feeling giddy with delight. He could solve the problem of the alliance, rescue Rosalind from her grim situation, and probably allow Philip to produce an heir to the French throne as well. He firmly pushed aside any niggling doubts that lurked the back of his mind. Now he had to convince the earl of the wisdom of the marriage. And then—a much more frightening prospect—he had to tell Donna that their stay in the year 1200 would be extended.


	11. Ch 11: Confrontations and Explanations

**Chapter 11: Confrontations and Explanations**

**Edward, earl** of Northumberland, sat in front of the fireplace in the outer room of his living quarters. Will Forster was with him. He had always found the boy a comforting presence and now he was the one person that he could talk to easily about Rob. It was difficult, still, for him to believe that his son was gone, that they had buried him yesterday. The grim weather of the day before had abated outside but the chill and damp still clung to the stones of the castle and this interior room was dark and cold; hence the fire in the fireplace. He and Will had been chatting idly when one of his servants entered and announced the arrival of the king of France. The two men exchanged a quizzical look before Edward gestured to the man to admit Philip.

The Doctor entered the chamber and was struck at the contrast with the sun-flooded room from which he had come. His lips still buzzed from Rosalind's kisses and his delight at her acceptance of his proposal warmed him from within. He faced the inquiring glances of the earl and Will and bowed in greeting. He decided on the direct approach.

"My lord Edward, I would like your permission to marry your daughter."

Will started to his feet at this, shock visible on his face. The earl remained still, obviously calculating the implications of the question. He finally said, "So that's how you want to cement our alliance, eh?"

"Exactly. A marriage to replace the marriage that cannot be. And this arrangement has the added potential to provide me an heir for my kingdom, of course."

The earl snorted. "Of course, you'll have to be shackled to a willful little bitch as the price for it. You must value this northern threat to John very greatly."

Will shifted unhappily and the Doctor felt a surge of anger, but he calmed himself with the thought that he was going to take Rosalind away from this man. The best way to speed that process was to minimize the reasons for the earl to object. He therefore forbore to argue and answered coolly, "That is my concern, not yours, my lord. You will get your alliance and you may be the grandfather of a king."

Edward stood. "I'm not going to say no to you, certainly. I had thought to give her to the castellan of Norham, who holds the border for me against the Scots. But then again, why inflict her on poor loyal Thomas if you actually wish to marry her?"

Will protested, "My lord, Thomas of Norham is older than you are!"

"So he is. Well, it's a moot point now, anyway. The king wants her, God help him."

"You agree, I take it?" Philip's voice was icy.

"Of course."

"Good. We will be leaving as soon as possible; within a few days. The Lady Rosalind will accompany us. Have your clerks meet with mine to draw up the appropriate documents regarding our agreement." He turned on his heel and left the room.

He had not gone far down the hallway when he heard his name called. He paused and turned to find Will Forster catching up with him. "My lord Philip."

"Hello, Will."

"Did you mean it? You're going to marry Rosalind?"

"Yes. She has agreed and now, as you heard, so has the earl."

"I am sorry about that. My foster father's relationship with Rosalind is…"

"I know. Robert filled me in early in my stay here."

"Ah." Will paused.

The Doctor asked gently, "Did you require something else?"

"Yes. I wanted to say…I have known Rosalind since I was a small boy. I have always loved her as a sister, and now, with Rob gone and her father indifferent, I am the only one left to be her advocate."

The Doctor looked with renewed appreciation at the young man. He nodded gravely. "I understand."

"She is special, Philip."

"You think I don't know that? I want to marry her, after all."

"To secure an alliance, yes."

"And because I love her."

Will narrowed his eyes. "I see."

"You don't believe me?"

"It seems…sudden. Does she feel the same about you?"

"I don't know. She has not said. But she is willing to marry me."

"Have you thought about how she will manage as queen of France?"

"She is the most intelligent woman I have ever met. She will do beautifully."

"Intelligent, yes. Even brilliant. But she is neither a diplomat nor a courtesan."

"She will learn."

"But…"

"Will, I do not wish to be rude, but what is driving these questions? Do you have feelings for her that make you oppose this match?"

Will regarded him steadily. "I do not oppose this match. I merely want Rosalind to be happy."

"And do you think she'll be happier married to an elderly castellan on the Scottish border, or in Paris as my queen?"

The young man still looked troubled. The Doctor softened. "I understand your desire to protect her. I admire it. But I will take care of her. Look, she is not conventional. We both know that. So what reason would I have to choose her except that I have high esteem for her? As she told me herself, there would be other ways to keep Northumberland as my ally."

Will nodded slowly and, after a moment, extended his hand. The Doctor took it, favored him with a grin, and went off to find Donna.

**The Doctor **pondered how may life forms he had met that were scarier than an angry Donna Noble. Not many. Daleks, yes. At least in groups. Slitheen? No chance. The Beast in the pit? Maybe, without the chains…

He snapped to attention as Donna, who had been silently considering him after he finished his story, finally spoke.

"So you asked Rosalind to marry you. You, Philip, the king of France. And you've been to see the earl to get his permission."

"Yep. The earl was delighted, of course. He sees Rosalind as being of no value, so in his eyes he gets to secure the alliance for nothing."

"Yes, well, we already knew he's an idiot." She paused. "And you don't see anything wrong with this plan, Doctor?"

"I think it's quite brilliant, actually." He sounded a touch petulant at her skepticism.

"Do you? Then you won't mind if I have some questions?" He shook his head. "Good. First, don't you think there's a big difference between ensuring a marriage that was supposed to happen but was derailed by a freak accident and creating an entirely new marriage?"

"Of course there's a big difference, Donna. I had no intention of doing this when I came here, but circumstances have changed. I wasn't able to stop Robert's death and now we need a new way to ensure the alliance and an heir for France."

"And what about Philip? He's going to wake up from being in stasis on the TARDIS and find himself married!"

"I explained how that would work. We will use the TARDIS to transfer my emotions and experiences of this time into him before he is awakened. He will have experienced everything I have. His feelings will be the same. Oh, and listen, Donna: you know how you thought he was remarkable, when you talked with him in the forest? Well, you were right. I can dip in and out of his thoughts and feelings thanks to the chameleon arch, and he really has an exceptional mind. He is able to appreciate Rosalind, despite her differences, and he is attracted to her—all on his own and without any help from me. It will work!"

She looked unimpressed. He said, "Look, I know you haven't enjoyed our time here…"

"This is not about me, you prawn," she said, giving him a withering look. "Speaking of the king, when exactly do you plan to return him to his life and to his new wife?"

"I think it's best if I get us back to Paris and get the wedding arranged first. Then I can transfer everything to Philip and you and I will be on our way."

"We're going to Paris? Are you leaving the TARDIS here?"

"Donna, the TARDIS travels through space and time. I can certainly program her to hop across the English Channel."

"Mmm. So you're going to have the TARDIS meet us in Paris. And then you're just going to step out of this life that you seem to have gotten so attached to, and leave behind this woman—this new Rose—and let another man marry her?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you. I've seen the way you look at her, Doctor. You've found Rose again. You're not going to be able to let her go."

He said, "I don't think you understand at all, Donna. She is not Rose. She is…" He stopped and shook his head. This was not something he wanted to discuss, not even with Donna. "And I will let her go at the right time. Because I have to."

Donna was silent for a time and then said, softly, "What did you tell her, Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't know Rosalind very well, but I would be willing to bet that she doesn't see herself as queen material. I think she'd wonder what the hell had gotten into you if you asked her to marry you. What did you tell her to convince her?"

He hesitated and she repeated, implacably, "What did you tell her?"

He looked at her defiantly. "I told her I loved her. I told her I would take her away from this life to something better."

"Oh, Doctor."

"What?"

"You told a young and vulnerable girl that you love her. A girl whose brother has just died and whose father doesn't give a damn about her, who has a bright mind and spirit that are trapped in a dreary life in the cold northern reaches of England. And now you—the king of France, but not really—you sweep in and you offer her more than she's ever dreamed of. But you don't tell her the down side, do you? That you're an alien? An alien who loved a woman who is probably her descendant and who is certainly her physical twin?"

"The first part doesn't matter. I will make sure she never knows the difference between me and the real Philip. As for the last part, she figured it out on her own. She put all the pieces together regarding my behavior toward her and realized that I had once loved a woman who looked like her."

Donna regarded him steadily for a moment, processing this. "Well, we both agree she's brilliant. But Philip didn't have a Rose. So how is that going to work?"

"I'll put it in his memories, like everything else."

"Adding your own biography—outside of these weeks in Northumberland—to his memories? Don't you see, Doctor, that's a step too far!"

"What does it matter? Adding a little secret love affair with a woman named Rose to his adolescent recollections?"

"In itself, it's not much. But then neither was that little alien blaster. It's what these little things can do in the bigger picture." He had no response to this, so she went on, "And you're still not telling Rosalind everything. The most important things."

"So you're suggesting that I go back to her and tell her I'm a nine hundred year old alien who has replaced the king of France in order to save the future of the country, but don't worry, I'll be shifting my consciousness back into the real king in a few weeks and she won't know the difference?"

Donna looked down and he continued, "I can save her, Donna. I can give her the life she deserves, with Philip. I couldn't save Rose, but I can save her."

"Doctor, don't you think this is wrong?"

"Is it? Is it really, Donna? Shall we go now, leave France to its fate and Rosalind to hers? Do you know that her father had a plan to marry her to an elderly lord in a castle on the Scottish border? Do you think that such a man would appreciate her brilliance? Would let her copy manuscripts and ride every morning?"

"Will she be able to do those things as queen of France?" He chuffed in frustration and she held up her hand. "Doctor, I admit, it looks on the surface like a good thing, like you're saving her from a grim life. But I just…it feels wrong. It feels like you're meddling in a way you don't normally meddle. And I think you're more emotionally involved than you realize. You didn't just tell her you loved her, did you? You really do love her."

"That is not relevant."

"Of course it's bloody relevant!"

"Donna, enough. You've made your position clear, but it's done, and it's the right thing to do."

"This is not going to end well, Doctor."

He stood up, clearly angry, but she took his arm with all gentleness and he softened. "I know you like to save people, Doctor. But this…at the very best, you're setting yourself up for heartbreak. And at the worst…I don't even know."

"That's what it is to be a Time Lord, Donna. To love humans and to lose them. I'll be alone again, but I'll manage."

"You'll still have me."

He sighed and pulled her into a hug. "Yes. And I'm so very glad of that." Donna returned the embrace warmly, although she could not shake the feeling of dread that hung over her.

**When Donna** entered Rosalind's bedchamber not long thereafter, the girl was waiting for her, pacing nervously near the window. Donna walked forward and Rosalind came to meet her, her gaze forthright if a bit apprehensive. Donna smiled and said, "You've had quite a day since last I saw you."

"He told you?"

"He did. In fact, he asked me to tell you that he saw your father and got his permission. And he asked me to give you this." Donna handed over a small piece of folded parchment to Rosalind, who opened it, read the short note, and smiled, flushing slightly. Then she seemed to recall who was in front of her.

"Donna, after I…after I accepted Philip's proposal, I realized it might be hurtful to you. You have been so wonderful to me. The last thing I would wish to do is sadden you."

"Hush, now. It's fine. The king and I…it has been a very long time that we have been only good friends. Nothing more." That at least was literally true, if still somewhat deceptive. Donna continued, "So, you will be queen of France, then?"

Rosalind flushed more deeply. "Does it seem ridiculous to you?"

What to say to this? "Only in that you seem a bit shy. I know that you can do it if you set your mind to it."

"That's what Philip said."

"And do you believe him?"

"I'll tell you what I believe. Only knowing Philip for a couple of weeks, I trust him with my future more than I do my father. And oh…to see Paris? To travel?" She shook her head. "It is more than I could have dreamed."

"I worry about you," Donna confessed.

"So do I, sometimes. But listen, Donna. Think of the worst that could happen…would it be worse than what would happen if I stayed here? And at least I will have had an adventure!"

Donna couldn't help beaming at the girl. It was exactly the same sentiment that led her to travel with the Doctor, despite the dangers and the hardships. Maybe, just maybe, the Doctor was right and it would all work.

"Besides," Rosalind added, "you'll be with us too, yes? You will remain with the king, and with me?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

"So you see? An adventure! For all of us."

She looked so very young, so happy and excited. Donna resolved to wait and see. Not to put aside her concerns, but to watch what happened. She looked after the Doctor, and now she would make it her business to look after Rosalind too.


	12. Chapter 12: Verses and Farewells

**Chapter 12: Verses and Farewells**

**The next** morning the Doctor arrived at Rosalind's scriptorium to find it empty. He felt a moment of panic before he realized that in the flurry of excitement surrounding their conversation of the day before, they had not set a specific time to meet. She would probably arrive soon. He surveyed the room. However unsettled she had been by his proposal, she had found it in herself to finish the job of cleaning her room. There were no more stacks of parchment sheets scattered about and only a slight shadow on the flagstone floor showed where the ink had pooled. Rather, back on the slanted work surface of her desk was a neatly copied sheet of a manuscript. It appeared to be one of her half-completed tasks, as she had several large sheaves of written pages stacked on the top of the desk. This text seemed to be in verse. He picked up the first pile and flipped it over, looking at the beginning of the text. The TARDIS, even at a distance, translated for him: "Arms and the man I sing…" Ah yes, The Aeneid, the great Roman epic of warfare and of love. And how far had she gotten? Putting down the pile of completed folia, he scanned the page on which she was currently writing. Book four, it would appear. He read the lines she had copied most recently:

"Will you to grief your blooming years bequeath

Condemn'd to waste in woes your lonely life

Without the joys of mother or of wife?"

His reverie was interrupted by a soft voice behind him. "A sad passage."

He turned and could not help but smile. She was dressed in green today and, in his eyes at least, she glowed. She seemed to have been struck by shyness, however, and kept her eyes on the page. She brushed her fingertips over the inked letters when she spoke. "Queen Dido's sister tries to persuade her to steel herself against Aeneas's betrayal, not to drown in grief. It does not work, of course."

"No."

"He leaves her, despite her wishes and her pleas, and she kills herself. With his sword." A small smile played on her lips. "A questionable hero, Aeneas, to treat his love so."

"I suppose he had greater cares than romantic love."

"Indeed. But still interesting that the poet would have chosen to write Dido as such a heart-wrenching figure. When she begs him to stay…it makes Aeneas seem cruel, despite his grand concerns—or perhaps because of them." She paused and closed her eyes, drawing on memory, then quoted, "'I beg you by these tears too truly shed/By the new pleasures of our nuptial bed;/If ever Dido, when you most were kind/Were pleasing in your eyes, or touched your mind…'" She broke off. "But he leaves anyway."

"This may be another case in which we see different things in the same text. I find myself sympathizing with Aeneas too. The necessity of making painful decisions for the greater good, at the expense of one's heart's desire. It is something with which I am familiar."

"You're right. It is a lonely thing, I would imagine, to carry so many people's fate on one's shoulders."

She still looked away from him, and he was not sure if she referred to Aeneas or Philip. Certainly she did not mean him, the Doctor, and yet he felt a surge of recognition at her words. He yearned to overcome this sudden shyness of hers and so he grasped her hand, bringing it to his mouth, and then spoke again, "But in this case, my heart wants the thing that is best for my kingdom. I feel doubly fortunate."

Now she met his gaze. "I would not blame you if you regretted your offer in the cold morning light."

"Not at all."

"And my father agreed willingly?"

"Donna told you?"

"And gave me your note. I…thank you." She blushed.

Warmth suffused him, but he strove to focus on her original question. "Your father did indeed give his permission. Of course, he was as rude as possible about it."

"Yes. Will told me he threatened me with Thomas of Norham." She gave a shudder.

"I hear Sir Thomas is not young."

"Not young? That's the least of his faults. His previous wives, both now deceased, had a tendency to arrive at celebrations here at court with black eyes and bruises. Not a gentle man in any sense of the term."

The Doctor felt a surge of anger that the earl would even suggest such a man for his daughter. But no matter. "And you, my lady? Do you feel regret this morning?"

She looked up at him. "None. Even if my father did not hold the good Sir Thomas over my head, I would still wish to come with you. I meant what I said yesterday. I…admire you very much, my lord. It would be an honor to be your wife."

"In that case, please call me Philip, from now on."

She bowed her head in assent. "Then I am Rosalind to you."

"You are indeed. My Rosalind." He bent his head and kissed her, marveling again at the feel of her mouth. This may have been only her—what?—fourth kiss, but she was a fast learner. Not that he was surprised by that, of course. She gasped for air against his lips and without thinking he used the opportunity provided to inveigle his tongue into her mouth. She froze for a moment, clearly surprised, but at the gentle touch of his tongue to hers she moaned softly and began to respond in kind. He wrapped his arms even more tightly around her as the kiss became heated. After another full minute they both seemed to come to their senses and began to separate, albeit slowly. They ended with foreheads touching, both breathing heavily and with shaky legs. Finally he pulled his head back and regarded those glowing brown eyes that he loved so.

She smiled at him, tongue between teeth. "It would seem you are my Philip as well."

There seemed to be no appropriate response to that but to show her how completely hers he was.

She was the one who broke away this time, stepping deliberately back from him and keeping a palm flat on his chest to prevent him following her. "It's difficult to stop once we start, isn't it?"

He laughed. "That pretty much sums it up."

She took a breath and strove to focus on the other questions she wished to ask him. "Have you told your sister?"

He had, in fact, spoken with Blanche the previous evening. She had been surprised, certainly, but accepting of his reasoning about preserving the alliance. She had asked, "Will she travel back with us, Philip?"

He had answered in the affirmative and asked, "Can you help her, Blanche? Paris is going to be a big change for her."

"Of course, brother. She is a shy girl, it seems, but very intelligent. She will learn."

He related a short version of this conversation to Rosalind, who nodded. "I will be glad to have Blanche's guidance." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't quite know how I am going to do this."

"You will learn."

"Philip, about Donna." She paused, then spoke in a rush. "I want her with us. I don't want you to send her away, just because we are marrying."

He stared at her for a moment before the reason for her concern clicked into place. He had a tendency to forget the cover story that he himself had concocted—that Donna was his mistress. But Donna had explained to him the night before what she had told Rosalind about their relationship. So now he echoed that. "Rosalind, Donna and I are very close friends, but that is all. I know it is unconventional for a man to have a friend who is a woman, which is why we persevere in the fiction that she is my lover."

Rosalind nodded, seeming to accept this with ease. Then she asked, "Do you have other mistresses?"

Bugger. He had not plumbed Philip's mind on this question before. Were there established mistresses waiting back at the court in Paris? He dove desperately into the king's memories, trying to sort through them in order answer her. Rosalind, however, mistook his silence and began to stammer nervously.

"My lord…Philip…I did not mean…I would never expect…I just wanted to know their names so that I didn't make any gaffes when we get to court. I'm sorry," she finished, blushing hotly and looking at her shoes.

Happily, he had completed his survey of Philip's memories and was able to reach out and lift her chin to face him. "I would be lying if I said there were never women since my wife died. But I can tell you truthfully that I have loved no one since then, until you."

"So…your Rose was before your wife?"

"Yes." He had already resolved to make Rose an adolescent paramour in Philip's mind.

She nodded. "Thank you. I may be young and…unworldly but I am not naïve. I understand how these things work. But I would always rather you told me the truth, even if it might be painful."

"I promise to do that." He thought of his conversation with Donna the night before, and he silently amended his vow to exclude those things that would make Rosalind think him insane.

**Philip stood**—for the last time, he hoped—in the corner of the earl's meeting room. The week that had passed had seen a flurry of activity as the French party packed and assembled supplies for the journey back to the west coast of England, where ships waited to take them to the Continent. Philip had spent much of the time in discussions with the earl and his clerks, hammering out the details of the alliance and approving the text of the charter that both men had affixed with their seals and their signatures. Copies were tucked away to be stored in the chanceries of each. Whenever possible, the Doctor had also spent time with Rosalind, as she prepared to leave her home, probably for good. In general, she seemed in good spirits, excited about the journey. Many satisfying hours had been spent organizing and packing her books, which took up many trunks. More difficult had been visits to Robert's grave at the cathedral and to the scene of his death in the meadow. He had objected to the latter trip, fearing it would upset her too much, but she had been unmoved by his words and he had eventually relented. In both cases she had seemed serene after her tears stopped, and he was gratified that she had allowed him to accompany her on these emotionally charged visits. Although she had not yet told him that she loved him, he felt increasing confidence that her feelings for him—for the king—were deepening by the day.

Now she had asked him to be with her for what was, in some ways, the most fraught moment of the departure: the farewell to her father. They planned to leave early in the morning of the following day and so on this morning they had gone together to Edward's chambers. The earl had not yet finished dressing, so they stood in the outer chamber, the Doctor leaning against a wall, Rosalind standing in front of the window, twisting her fingers together in what he now recognized as a sure sign that she was nervous.

He considered her appearance. Along with packing her writing room, much of her time had been spent with Blanche. It appeared that Rosalind, so careless about her dress and hair for so long, had thrown herself with her usual vigor into the task of learning to groom herself like a great lady of the French court. Donna had told him that Blanche adored the role of mentor in this regard, and that her maids had been hard at work on Rosalind, softening her skin with lotions, plucking her eyebrows, showing her different ways to dress her hair. She was roughly the same size as Blanche, and his sister had been generous in sharing her gowns. Now Rosalind wore one of Blanche's: the dress, fitted down to her hips and then flaring into a sweeping skirt, was made of silk of a delicate dove grey, with a rounded neckline and large pendant sleeves revealing an inside lining the color of ivory. The dress was subdued in tone—none of the women had resumed wearing bright colors since Robert's death—but made of such rich fabric that it stood out nonetheless. Her only adornment was a long gold belt cinched around her waist, the ends trailing down the front of the dress. As an unmarried woman, much of her hair was left loose down her back, but the top was elaborately braided to hold it back from her face. She looked lovely and elegant in the light from the window, although he felt a pang of nostalgia for the unpolished girl he had first met.

Finally, the earl emerged from his bedchamber, looking down as he pulled on a riding glove. Rosalind turned from the window and when her father looked up at her he froze. The two regarded each other silently for a few moments before Edward stepped toward her and brought his still ungloved right hand up to stroke her cheek. Even from across the room the Doctor saw tears start into Rosalind's eyes at the unexpected tenderness of the gesture. She whispered, "Father, I…"

The earl jerked backward at the sound of her voice and seemed to recover himself, looking suddenly angry, although it was unclear whether with himself or with her. "Rosalind. You… Dressed like that, you look so very much like your mother. For a moment I thought…" He drew a breath. "You startled me."

"I'm sorry, Father. But I'm glad I look like her, that I carry something of her with me."

He did not respond to this. Rather, he said, "So you're off tomorrow, then?"

"Yes."

"And where will you meet your ships?" He directed this question to Philip, who described the planned route. While he was speaking, the Doctor noticed Rosalind begin to tremble slightly with emotion and he stepped toward her, not looking at her but allowing her to slide her arm around his elbow and grip him for support.

When the conversation died away, Edward looked once more at his daughter and her future husband. "Well, then," he said. "I'm going hunting. We will probably stay at the lodge tonight, so I will say farewell now. I hope you find safe passage across the sea."

And with that, he turned and left the chamber.

The Doctor could not help feeling relief that the meeting had not ended in shouting or other impropriety on the earl's part. He realized quickly, however, that Rosalind had not taken it so well. Tears streaked her face when he looked at her, and she began shivering in earnest.

"Oh, my dear…" He turned and wrapped her in his arms. She clung to him for several minutes, weeping, before she recovered herself and stepped back. He offered her his handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully.

"I'm sorry," she said, in a slightly choked voice.

"Don't be," he replied.

"I was so concerned he would find a reason to shout and rage at me. I should be relieved he didn't. But it suddenly struck me. He's my only living family, and he doesn't care that he'll never see me again."

She looked so desolate. He drew her to him again. She did not weep but she once again held onto him, her face in his shoulder.

He pulled back from her after a moment. "You have a new family now. Myself. Donna. Blanche. We will not leave you."

She shuddered. "That's what Rob said. That he would never leave me. You can't promise that, Philip."

He leaned in to kiss her mouth and she responded hungrily. When they separated, breathless, he said, "I can try my damndest. I don't want to be without you. Come to France with me?"

Now she smiled at him. "Tomorrow. A whole new adventure."


	13. Chapter 13: The Light and the Shadows

**Chapter 13: The Light and the Shadows**

**Rosalind stood** at a window of the royal palace on the Ile de la Cité. From her vantage point, she could see much of Philip's capital city laid out before her. The chamber he had given her was set in a turret at the corner of the palace, and thus she had windows commanding views in three directions. To the west she could just spy the new fortress of the Louvre that Philip had built, standing where the walls he had commissioned to encircle Paris met the river on the northern bank. To the east, the vast bulk of the new cathedral of Notre Dame rose at the opposite end of the island. She smiled softly at the sight of it, thinking of the visit that she had made there with Philip a few days before. The nave and transept were complete, although the towers of the west front were still under construction. While she was used to cathedrals of great size—that of Durham was massive—it was the expanse of the windows that had impressed her when Philip had shown her the church. The architects in northern France, he explained, had developed new techniques to lessen the amount of weight from the roof that the walls had to support, allowing them to open up large spaces in the walls that were then filled with stained glass and delicate stone tracery. Much of the glass had yet to be installed, but that in the apse had been.

Philip had purposely taken her there in the early evening. He insisted that she close her eyes as he led her in through the door in the north transept to stand under the windows. He had gently tipped her chin upward and then whispered to her to open her eyes. She did, and she found herself in a world of color. Color blazing down at her from the windows illuminated by the setting sun, which in turn threw great pools of vivid light onto the stone floor. She had laughed in delight, spinning with her arms outstretched, bathed in blues and greens and reds that put the silk gowns of the court to shame. She had turned to see him looking at her with what she now thought of as "that look", the look that made her weak, the look of pleasure and desire that came over him when he was able to show her something new that delighted her. She had been so very happy in that moment, standing in an island of color and light, that she wanted him to know what she felt. She said, "thank you." He had nodded with a dismissive wave of his hand, as he tended to when she tried to tell him this, but she added, "I love you." It was the first time she had said it, and the look that had come over his face was one she hoped never to forget. He had been by her side in two strides, wrapping her in his arms and holding her tightly. After a few moments she had struggled in his hold, not to fight free of him, but to allow her to reach his mouth with her own. It occurred to her a few moments later to be glad the church had not yet been consecrated, when the discreet cough of the canon who had been accompanying them interrupted their impassioned embrace.

It had been a whirlwind two weeks since their arrival in Paris. The wedding was being planned, although she left that mostly to Blanche, who was completely at home supervising the servants and the clerics who would be involved. She had also left the design of her wedding dress to her new sister-in-law. Apparently it would involve much gold and fur and the lilies of France. Although Rosalind enjoyed looking more polished and was relieved to find that she could learn to dress herself like a great lady when necessary, she found it hard to muster too much sustained interest in the proceedings.

She looked around her room. Philip had been kind to give her such a large chamber. So bright, too, with the windows on three sides. Her writing desk, painstakingly hauled from Northumberland, was here; along with the books on the shelves that lined one wall, it was the only familiar piece of home she had. The rest of the chamber seemed impossibly rich—the luxury of the materials and the size of the furniture were on a scale she had not imagined in Northumberland. "What do you think, Rob?" she whispered to herself. "You were right after all. Me, the queen of France." She felt the now familiar pain in her chest when she thought of her brother, and she let her cheek rest on the cool stone of the window frame, trying to gather herself.

The departure from Durham had been more difficult than she had expected. Philip had warned her, a few days before they left. "Leaving home is always hard," he said, and he sounded like he spoke from experience. She had brushed it off. "All I loved about home was Rob," she said. Philip raised an eyebrow and looked at the stacks of books she sat amongst on the floor of her writing room. She grinned and pointed at him. "I'm bringing these with me, so they don't count."

He sighed, feigning a put-upon demeanor. "I hope the ships will not sink with all this new weight."

Despite her blithe dismissal of his warning, however, he had been right. On the morning of their departure she had woken in the pre-dawn hours, feeling panicked and sick. The abortive tenderness of her farewell to her father had shaken her and she had slept badly, and now she suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to visit Robert one last time. She roused Donna, who agreed to leave the castle with her and go to the cathedral. They had wrapped themselves in cloaks and walked through the lightening darkness to the church, where she had spent half an hour sitting with her back against Rob's sepulcher, ignoring the chill that soaked through her clothes from the cold stone of the cathedral floor. Donna had made herself scarce but eventually Rosalind had called out for her, her voice echoing in the great space of the empty church. Donna could not have gone far as she reappeared almost immediately. She had had the foresight, even in a half-awake state, to bring an extra handkerchief with her, which she handed over to the younger woman. Rosalind mopped her face and then said, "How can I leave him, Donna?" She ran a loving hand over the side of the tomb. "He's the only person who ever loved me. Every day, he took care of me. How can I leave him behind?"

Donna found herself in the strange position of wanting to encourage the girl to leave for Paris and marry Philip—exactly the plan that she had chastised the Doctor for setting in motion. She pushed her qualms aside, however; Rosalind needed an answer, not a silence brought on by musings she couldn't understand. So Donna gathered her thoughts and spoke. "The only good thing about losing someone you love, Rosalind, is that you can't really leave them behind, can you? They're alive in your heart, and nowhere else, so wherever you go, they're with you."

Donna thought it sounded a bit like a greeting card, but she was pleased to see that Rosalind seemed calmer. She said, "Do you think I'm mad to do this, Donna?"

Donna answered truthfully. "I think you're very brave. And besides, what choice have you got?"

"None other that is nearly as appealing."

"Well then."

Rosalind nodded decisively and stood. She bent over and pressed a final kiss to the stone of her brother's grave, whispered something that Donna did not catch, and then turned away. She took Donna's hand and squeezed it, and then the two women left the church arm-in-arm.

That had definitely been the worst, saying goodbye to Rob, although when Will had swept her into an embrace and held her tightly she had cried again. She loved Will dearly, had often wished that she might marry him, although he inspired in her none of the breathless feeling that Philip did. But he would wed someone else, cementing an alliance just as her own marriage would. And it was highly likely she would never see him again. "Be happy, Rosalind," he whispered in her ear.

She pulled back and smiled through her tears. "I will try. You too, brother." He nodded, looking down to hide the fact that he was crying. "And Will?" He met her eyes. "Check in on Father now and then, yes? He will need you." He nodded again, speechless. They held hands until Philip came to hand her up into her saddle. Her final view of the city of her birth was clouded by the tears that continued to flow as she thought of the brothers—one living and one dead—that she left behind.

Things had improved once Durham faded from sight. By the second day of riding they were in a part of England she had never seen before and her natural curiosity and delight in the novel began to overcome her grief at the departure. They reached the sea coast without incident, the only delay being an unexplained detour that Philip took alone into the forest late on their second day of riding. Once they arrived at the coast, the servants loaded the luggage into the ships and they set sail. Rosalind had, at first, been confined to the ladies' cabin with Blanche and Donna. The sea was rough and her two companions had quickly been laid low by seasickness. Although she had never sailed before, she knew that sitting in the close and dark cabin listening to retching was inevitably going to make her ill as well, so she wrapped herself in her warmest woolen cloak and climbed up to the deck.

There she found a sight the likes of which she had not seen. The ships pitched alarmingly through the waves, but she quickly grew more accustomed to the motion and kept her feet. Out in the fresh air, able to see the horizon, her queasiness vanished. Instead she felt the thrill of seeing the coast go by at what seemed like an unbelievably high speed, of feeling the sea heave the boat up and down, of hearing the sails snap in the considerable wind. She lurched gracelessly to the railing and held on, staring rapt out into the distance. Spray flew over the rails and wet her clothing, but she did not care. Rather, she laughed with delight, tasting the salt water on her lips.

"Rosalind!"

She felt hands on her arms, spinning her around so that her middle back pressed into the rail. It was Philip. He looked alarmed for some reason, but she only grinned at him. "Hello!" she called, above the sound of the waves.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Donna and Blanche are sick, and they were making me feel sick. Besides…I wanted to see!" She gestured around her. "It's wonderful, Philip!"

"You shouldn't be so near the edge. A wave could wash you away." She snorted. "At the very least you'll catch cold."

She didn't know where she found the boldness, but in response to this statement she smiled cheekily, tongue between teeth, and said, "So why don't you stay here and keep me warm?" She then turned in his embrace and snuggled back into him, so that his arms gripped the rail on either side of her and his body cocooned hers in warmth. She heard his low chuckle in her ear, and he kissed the base of her neck, making her shiver. "You taste salty," he told her. They stayed that way for a long time, until the dampness of the spray soaking their clothes made them both too cold for comfort.

**So preoccupied** had Rosalind been with her memories of the events of the past few weeks that she did not hear Donna enter her chamber, only becoming aware of her presence when she heard the older woman's soft cry of surprise at the sight of her. She closed her eyes momentarily, then turned from the window.

Donna stood a few feet away, surveying her. "What on earth happened to you?"

Rosalind looked ruefully down at herself. Her gown was completely filthy, covered in mud that was now caked and dry. The mud was in her hair as well and it streaked the side of her face. She took a step toward Donna and winced. She was going to have some significant bruising on her left side. Donna was next to her in a flash. "Rosalind, what is it?"

"It's not serious, Donna. I fell off my horse." She and her escorts had ridden out across the Seine that morning, heading toward the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés to ride in the meadows for which the church had been named. It had been a silly accident; a peasant driving a herd of cattle had emerged into the track at exactly the wrong moment and her horse had reared in surprise. Had it been Thunder she could have controlled him better. Hell, had she not been riding sidesaddle she would have been fine even on this new horse. But the future queen of France could not be seen riding like a man, so she had been thrown and landed hard. The mud was annoying, but the fact that the ground had been soft had probably spared her any further injury. The peasant had been speechless with fear when he saw the royal insignia on her horse and the livery of her escorts, but she had ordered her men that he be allowed to go on his way unscathed. They had helped her up and she had insisted on riding all the way back to the palace, her pride having been hurt worse than her body. She had then sent for Donna and waited at the window for her to come and help her clean up.

Donna made a face and began to strip Rosalind of her filthy clothes. "Well, these are ruined." She worked in silence for a few moments, getting Rosalind down to her underthings, which basically consisted of a light linen dress that was worn underneath her gown. Donna then steered Rosalind to the tub of hot water servants had brought, in which she washed the girl's face and hair. Then she picked up the comb and began to untangle the long tresses. As she worked, she said, "You know he's going to hear about this."

"Yes."

"And he's going to be angry."

"Why? I'm fine."

"Well, number one, it's not usual for the queen to end up arse over elbow in mud, is it?"

"I'm not queen yet," Rosalind said, a bit sulkily.

"And second, he worries about you."

She sighed. "I ride every day. It's inevitable that I'm going to fall now and then."

"That may be." Donna hesitated for a moment, then said, "He's lost people before, Rosalind. People he loved. It's made him…"

She paused. Rosalind's gaze was sharp and interested. Donna opened her mouth to continue, but was interrupted by a pounding on the outer door of her rooms. Donna raised her eyebrows. "I'd be willing to bet I know who that is. Put on your dressing gown and I'll let him in." Rosalind did as she was told, shrugging on a deep red robe over her underclothes and lifting her heavy wet hair to lay down the back. She heard Donna open the door and the murmur of Philip's voice. Seconds later, he appeared in her bedroom, and Donna was nowhere to be seen.

She knew he'd be upset, but she suddenly realized that she'd never seen him angry before, this man she was going to marry. She braced herself for the noise and recrimination that, in her experience, accompanied anger. But Philip was a very different than her father, she quickly realized. His dark blue eyes were cold and he was very still as he watched her from across the room. So motionless that he made her more nervous than her father had with his rages.

Still. He had no right to be so angry with her for such a minor incident. She lifted her chin and regarded him with what she hoped was a challenging look, waiting for him to speak.


	14. Chapter 14: The Sickness and the Remedy

**Chapter 14: The Sickness and the Remedy**

**The Doctor** was exhausted that morning. The work of a king was endless, and he was required to draw more and more on Philip's mind in order to carry out his duties. This was not something he had ever done before, and he found it unexpectedly taxing on his mental faculties. Add to that the fact that Philip was an active man, inclined to do things himself whenever possible, rather than send representatives to do work for him. He rode out of Paris regularly to survey particular regions or to discuss problems with local officials or to hold courts where his people could come to receive justice, and so the Doctor also found himself physically as well as mentally tired. So tired that he had recently slept for several hours two nights in a row. In addition, he had spent an inordinate amount of time mooning over Rosalind. There was no other word for it. It had been bad enough since his proposal and their first kiss, but recently their embraces had become more and more passionate and his body felt the effects for hours afterward. And then she had told him that she loved him. From then on all his idle moments were spent imagining things he shouldn't be imagining, for so many reasons. The passions of a Time Lord were always intense; when experienced while co-existing with a human body and brain, they were even more draining and disturbing.

He had told Donna that they would leave before the wedding. That he would switch Philip back to his rightful position and they would be on their way. Logistically, it would be no problem. He had first sent the TARDIS from the forest in the north of England to an uninhabited area outside of the city, and then he had made a brief detour from one of his outings as king and sent it to his own bedchamber, now that he had the exact location. It sat now in the corner, hidden under a perception filter. Nothing would be simpler than to finish the job they had come to do. Everything was moving forward smoothly. The wedding was only days away.

And yet. Something was stopping him. He could feel Donna's eyes on him when they were together, watching and waiting for him to give some sign that it was time to go. As of now she had said nothing, but he knew what she was thinking. And still he could not move. Why? No, the question was disingenuous. He knew exactly what was stopping him, and it was precisely what Donna had warned him about. He might not be willing to admit that to her, but as he lay on his bed awake late at night he was forced to admit it to himself. Rosalind. He loved her. He was in love with her. He wanted to marry her and have a wedding night with her and every night thereafter. When he was with her, his world narrowed to her taste and smell, her wit and innocence, her daring and brilliance. And when he was away from her, his imagination sought to recapture her presence.

But of course, he couldn't have what he wanted. It was that simple. And there was no point in glorifying it, in pretending that she would hurt if—when—he left. This was no heart-wrenching Dido and Aeneas scenario, where she would suffer due to his departure. Rosalind would not know the difference when he replaced himself with the real Philip. No, it was only his own hearts that would be broken, knowing that another man would get to love her and that she would not even realize what had happened. But that should not count. There were larger considerations at stake. And yet, would the world end if he sampled those joys for just a little while? Around and around his mind went until he fell into a restless sleep, dreaming so vividly of being inside her that he woke up gasping and not feeling the least refreshed.

He had already been on edge that morning, therefore, and the work of trying to perfect a draft of a complex document granting royal land to a monastery was frustrating him. And so when his steward had appeared and murmured to him that the Lady Rosalind had returned from her ride but had apparently been injured in a fall from her horse, his defenses were low. He immediately saw in his mind Robert's blood-drenched hair and sightless eyes. He leapt to his feet and dashed to Rosalind's chamber, not giving his steward time to amend his statement and point out that the injuries were reportedly very minor. Donna opened the door at his pounding knock. He said, "Where is she?" and Donna gestured wordlessly toward the inner room. Reading his mood, Donna decided to leave the two alone together for a little while, closing the door behind her as he advanced into the bedchamber. Once he saw Rosalind he simply stared, trying to calm his racing hearts, reassuring himself that she was alive and upright and apparently not badly hurt. She stood near the window looking at him with some defiance in her eyes but also, he noticed, a bit of fear. She held her arm at a slightly awkward angle, presumably because it hurt from her fall. Where her dressing gown slipped open slightly, revealing one shoulder, he could see an abrasion and the beginning of a bruise.

He strove to keep his roiling emotions under control, asking softly, "Are you well?"

"I am fine. A few bruises." Her voice was normal, but her look wary.

"What happened?"

"A man crossed our path unexpectedly. The horse reared and threw me."

"Where?"

"Saint-Germain."

"Ah."

He was silent, but did not cease studying her. She shifted nervously under his gaze and then said, "Philip, I can't imagine why you're here. I would hate to think that I am interrupting your work for no reason. It was nothing…"

"It was nothing?" Now there was an edge in his voice. "You were thrown by your horse, and it was nothing?"

"I'm fine."

"This time."

"Philip, you've ridden your entire life. You know as well as I do that falls happen occasionally."

"Not to you. Not anymore." He felt like he was drowning in anger, or maybe it was panic. He wanted her to feel what it did to him for her to be in danger. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to kiss her until she understood. "You're not going riding without me anymore."

She stared at him in disbelief. "You must be joking."

"Oh, I assure you, I'm not."

"I ride everyday."

"You will ride with me from now on."

"Philip, be sensible. Your schedule would not allow for such a thing. You travel, you hold courts. And…even if you had been there today, what could you have done?"

He did not answer that, saying instead, "I mean it, Rosalind."

"As do I."

"You are going to defy me on this? When you watched what happened to…"

Now her mood swung instantly from disbelief and placation to anger. She held up her hand, her eyes flaring. "Stop there."

"I…"

"No!" Her voice was almost a shout. She bit her lip and continued in a more controlled fashion. "Do not finish that sentence. You were about to imply either that I have forgotten my brother's death or that I contributed to causing it. And I'm not sure I could forgive you for either statement."

They stood staring at each other, both angry now, both breathing quickly, both silent.

She spoke first. "Falls happen. You know that. Sometimes they are fatal. Most of the time they are minor. You cannot stop me riding." She paused and then whispered, a touch of pleading in her eyes, "You cannot."

He retreated into formality. "The queen cannot be seen to be in danger. It simply won't do."

"The men that you assigned to protect me were with me!"

"And what will protect you from this sort of accident?"

"What would you have me do? Sit here in my chamber and sew? Never leave the palace?"

He knew this was ridiculous but his emotions were so frayed he couldn't bring himself to care. "Perhaps. If that is what it takes."

"If you want to kill me, that would be the surest way." He said nothing, staring at the floor to avoid her gaze, and she continued, "I have never hidden my nature from you. Why did you ask me to marry you if you wanted some…traditional woman?" Still he did not speak. "Are you regretting it, my lord?" She put bitter emphasis on the title. "Saddling yourself with the bad wolf?"

His head came up violently, an unreadable look in his eyes. He took a step forward. "I will not lose you in a riding accident."

"Then you will lose me some other way."

His mind reeled. "What?"

"Philip, one of us will die before the other. One of us will lose the other."

"No."

She stared at him for a long moment before her lips curved into a small smile. When she spoke again, amusement had crept into her tone. "No?"

"No."

You plan to defy death? The fate of all humanity?"

"Yes," he said mutinously.

Her smile widened. "You're ridiculous, you know?"

He could no longer not be touching her. He moved to her side and pulled her roughly to him. She hissed as his arms closed around her bruised flesh but when he pulled back, contrite, she reached up and locked her arms around his neck. "I love you, Philip."

"Oh God. I love you," he gasped, burying his face in her neck.

"I'm sorry that I frightened you."

"When they told me, I thought of Robert. I thought…"

"I know. I thought of it too. Only afterward, of course. These kinds of things happen so fast, it's over before you know it." She took a breath that ended as a low moan as he raised his head from her neck just long enough to lay gentle kisses down its length.

"I can't lose you," he whispered.

"Shh. My love. You won't. Not anytime soon." She wanted to soothe him, but she couldn't understand why his eyes were still filled with so much fear, why his movements spoke of desperation. This was a man who had seen death and hardship and plague, who had been in battle. To be this upset over a simple fall from a horse… She made him look at her, stroking his cheek. "I'm here, Philip."

In response he crushed her mouth with his own. He slid his hands under her dressing gown, finding the thin linen of her slip and feeling the heat of her body through it. She removed her arms from around his neck long enough to shrug off the gown, revealing to him more of her skin than he had yet seen. The undergarment was sleeveless and cut low, showing the tops of her breasts. Running his hands over her smooth shoulders, which were damp from her hair, he reached down to kiss the bruises and scrapes on her left arm, then encircled her waist with his hands. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by his desire for her and so he tried to steady himself, holding her hips and breathing deeply.

Rosalind felt dizzy. This was not a new sensation for her of late. In recent months she had frequently found herself deeply unsettled by the swings of fortune she was experiencing. To go from the unthinkable tragedy of Robert's death to the offer of marriage from Philip. To travel for the first time, to live in a great city. To find herself in love with the man she was marrying—a luxury rare for women of her status—and even more than that, to find that the touch of his fingers aroused feelings she didn't know she possessed. And now, to go from an argument to a passionate embrace in a matter of moments. She had grown warm under her heavy dressing gown and so had slid it off her shoulders, although she then wondered if this had been an error, as Philip gripped her hips, holding her slightly away from him and not meeting her eyes. She ached for him to continue touching her.

"Philip?"

He looked up at her with pleading eyes. "Rosalind… If I don't stop now I won't be able to stop."

She smiled at him, full of love. "I don't want you to stop."

"But…"

"We'll be married in two days. It's fine." Still he hesitated, and she realized that she would have to be the one to be brave. She stepped forward, molding her body against his, and whispered in his ear. "Please, Philip. Please don't stop."

Her words released something in him. He made a feral noise in the back of his throat and swept her up in his arms. She laughed, a sound of pure joy, as he carried her to the bed and laid her down on it. He stretched out next to her and immediately reached to give her a long slow kiss, exploring her mouth thoroughly with his tongue. She moaned and shifted her body against him. He moved away from her mouth and kissed his way down her jaw to her neck and then on to her collarbone, left gorgeously bare in her shift. He nipped and sucked his way along it, reveling in the sounds she made. Her hands scrabbled at the bottom of his tunic, and he sat up long enough to help her pull it off him. She then pulled his linen undershirt from the waist of his trousers and rid him of that too. She lay down again, encouraging him to lie fully on top of her, rubbing her hands up and down his bare back. The feel of her skin on his was almost too much for him, and with a garbled sound he began to pull at the clasps on the bodice of her shift, trying to release her breasts. She giggled and tried to help him, but their fingers were made clumsy by haste.

With their attention focused on each other, they did not hear the soft sounds emerging from the outer room. A tap at the door. The slight creak as it opened. Donna's quiet call of "Rosalind?" But they certainly did hear her cry of surprise when she entered the room to find them half-naked and sprawled on the bed. "Oh my God!" Donna cried, whirling about and fleeing.

Philip and Rosalind looked at each other and collapsed into laughter. Philip sat up and pulled her to sit beside him. The spell was broken, although their breathing was still unsteady. Rosalind said resignedly, "I suppose we shall have to wait after all."

The Doctor nodded and after a moment he moved to put on his shirt and tunic. "Let me help," Rosalind said, and she proceeded to dress him, leaving kisses on his skin as she covered it.

"You're not making waiting seem very compelling," he growled at her.

She grinned and added another kiss. "Good."

Once he was dressed he held her tenderly for a few moments. "Can I ask you, at least, not to ride again without me before the wedding?"

"Of course. I'm going to be sore for a few days anyway."

"Thank you."

Rosalind pulled away and looked up at him. "What about Donna?"

"Donna's a grown woman. She will understand what happened. She might be a bit embarrassed, but it'll be fine." This, of course, was a lie. Donna would be sure to confront him sooner or later—probably sooner—and he would have to find some explanation to give her.


	15. Chapter 15: The Threat and the Promise

**Chapter 15: The Threat and the Promise**

**Donna Noble** knew when someone was avoiding her, and the Doctor most definitely was. She had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, she felt the need to confront him about what was going on between him and Rosalind and about the fact that there seemed to be no end in sight to their time in France. On the other hand, she felt deeply uncomfortable around him after what she had seen. Donna would have sworn up and down that she was no prude, but seeing Philip—the Doctor—half-naked on top of Rosalind had genuinely shocked her. Not for what they were doing, but for the implications of it. She had already noticed, of course, that the Doctor seemed to be avoiding the moment when he would have to leave Rosalind. Donna wasn't stupid and her eyes were in perfect working order. She had seen the two spending more and more time together, their looks becoming more intimate and their caresses more lingering. She knew the Doctor was making it increasingly difficult to pull himself away. It was like watching a toddler strike match after match; it was only a matter of time before one took light and caused untold pain and destruction. She needed to stop it. And yet, she felt paralyzed. When he was with Rosalind he looked so desperately happy. What was her proper role as his friend? To take him away from such joy, even if it might prevent him from hurting even more? Not to mention the wider implications of his decisions, which she didn't even try to get her mind around. All in all, confronting him was not a prospect she relished, to say the least.

So she had procrastinated, putting off the conversation. In her own defense, he was so busy with the tasks of a king that it was actually quite difficult to get him alone. But finally she could postpone it no longer and, with much trepidation, she tapped on his door on the eve of Philip's wedding to Rosalind.

"Who is it?" he called, sounding brusque.

She opened the door a crack. "It's me."

"Donna! Oh, come in. Shut the door behind you."

She entered and gasped. The TARDIS was there, in the corner of his room. Her eyes misted at the sight of the beloved blue box. "She's here? How long has she been here?"

"Oh, a week or so. I've had her hidden with a perception filter. You scared me just now—it wouldn't do for some French courtier to come in and see a twentieth-century English police box in my room, now would it?" He gave her a Doctor-ish grin with Philip's mouth. The door of the TARDIS stood open and he darted in, manic with energy.

Donna approached and ran her hand along the blue wood of the door before stepping inside. The familiar hum greeted her and she leaned against a coral strut, closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy this brief homecoming. She opened them again to watch the Doctor circling the console, checking on the condition of his ship. Glancing up at her, he offered, "Philip's doing brilliantly, by the way. The TARDIS is keeping him in tip-top shape. No muscle deterioration or any other problem."

She gathered her courage. No time like the present. "Doctor?"

He looked at her and smiled.

"What are we still doing here?"

His smile vanished, but he did not seem surprised. She supposed this was natural; he had to know she would ask eventually. He said, "Give me a few moments, would you, Donna? I want to finish my check of the ship and get her camouflaged again. We'll talk in my bedchamber when I'm done."

So she left the ship, pausing to stroke the coral as she went out, and sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for him. When he finally emerged, Donna expected the TARDIS to disappear. When the blue box remained visible, she looked at him inquiringly. "It's a perception filter, Donna. If you know for certain she's there, you see her. If you don't, you don't. There are stronger filters, but I don't need one because of course no one else here can even conceive of such a thing as this ship."

He came and joined her on the edge of the bed. "Now, Donna, you wanted to talk."

She decided to get directly to the point. "When are you going to return Philip to his life? When are we leaving?"

"Soon."

"Soon? As in tonight?"

"No, not tonight."

"I see."

The calm gaze with which he regarded her annoyed her. He knew exactly what she was getting at, but he was going to make her say it. She took the bait. "So you'll be marrying Rosalind tomorrow?"

"Oh, I should think so. She'd be very disappointed if Philip left her at the altar."

"You're being flip about this?" Her tone was one of disbelief.

He looked contrite, but not really—no, she realized, he looked like he was acting contrite. For her benefit. And now she was starting to get angry. "And I presume, given what I saw the other day, you'll be taking all the privileges of a husband on his wedding night?"

That got him, at least a bit. He flushed slightly pink. But his voice, when he spoke, was a drawl intended to bait her. "Again, I think she might be disappointed if I didn't."

"I never thought you were a perfect person, Doctor. But until now, if someone had called you a liar, I'd have defended you until my last breath. Now, though, I see that you are a liar."

"Donna…"

"No, you are. You keep telling me that we're leaving soon, that we get to go home, but you have no intention of doing anything but staying here and sleeping with Rosalind."

Now he looked more genuinely apologetic. "Donna, I haven't been thinking. We've been gone so long. You must miss your family, and they must be worried about you. I can send the TARDIS on a round trip from here to your time and back again. You can come back with her or stay where you are…"

Oh, she could throttle him, she really could. "How many times to I have to tell you this is not about me? I'm not worried about me! And that," she stabbed her finger at the TARDIS, "is a bloody time machine, so we can go back and my family won't know how long I've been away. What I'm worried about is the woman you're marrying under false pretences and the man you have in some kind of coma in there, who is missing out on decisions that will affect the rest of his life. Decisions you are making for him."

His face had subsided into an expression of mulish stubbornness, but he said nothing.

"And for some reason—although for the life of me I can't remember why right now—I'm worried about you! Because every day you stay here, every step you take deeper into loving that girl, you're going to be in more pain later."

"I'm perfectly aware of what I'm doing, Donna. There's no need for you to…"

"Oh no? And was there no need for me to be under the Thames that day? On the contrary, Doctor, you need someone to remind you that the universe needs you. It needs you out there, fighting, not stuck here mooning over a girl, however wonderful she may be."

He did not reply, and she moderated her tone, trying to express herself better. "Doctor, when we were at the Library, I was upset when River didn't know me, because it must mean that I don't travel with you for very long, which I hoped to do. But then I realized—it's not me the universe needs. It's you. What would it look like out there, without you? That's not something I would want to see."

"The universe got by for a long time before I was even born. Maybe it can get on without me for a while now."

"Doctor." She shook her head and took a deep breath. "This is the first time I've ever heard you make a completely selfish argument. In Durham, you were arguing for staying here longer in order to make sure the new plan was firmly in place. Well, it is in place. They're getting married tomorrow. There's still time, if you do it now, to put the real Philip in his rightful position. If you don't—if you decide to stay—it is purely for you. It's ignoring the needs of the universe and perpetuating a lie."

"The consequences of the lie will be mine alone to handle. My hearts are the ones that will break when I leave her. Why do you begrudge me a little happiness with her before I go?"

"Oh, Doctor. I hope I don't have to prove to you that I am your friend and that I don't want to see you hurt. But you will only hurt yourself more, and maybe others too, if you stay longer."

He took her hands in his own and focused all his persuasive powers on her. "Donna, do you know what this means to me? For once, for a brief time, I get to win. Do you understand that? I never touched Rose. I've never taken happiness for myself. And now, with Rosalind, I've found something I've never had. And I'm going to enjoy it for a little while. Just for a brief moment, I'm not going to be the last of the Time Lords. I'm going to be a man. And when the guilt overcomes me—and it will, believe me—I will leave her and I will go back to my life. I will deal with the pain that results. But right here, right now, I get to decide. You don't."

She decided to try a different tack. "Would Rosalind want you to do this? If she knew? Would she want you to sacrifice so many who need your help in order to stay with her?"

That stung him to his feet, glaring at her. "Rosalind would not want me to leave."

"You think so?"

"Donna, she's a woman of thirteenth-century Earth. She would have no context to understand the problem..."

"You're lying."

"What?"

"You're lying! Rosalind's the smartest woman I've ever met, and I'm betting she's one of the smartest you've ever met too, or you wouldn't love her like you do." He stared at her, obviously angry, but she pushed on. "She's unconventional and brilliant. She'd understand. She'd be skeptical, of course, and she'd be confused, but eventually she'd understand. And because she's honest and good and ethical, she'd tell you exactly what I'm telling you. You know that. And you're frightened of it."

"Be quiet, Donna."

"And maybe you're frightened that she'd hate you for what you've already done. That she'd love Philip but not you. Not the real you."

"Be quiet!" This was a shout. He'd never shouted at her in anger before, but she couldn't stop now. She'd come too far.

"If you don't stop this, Doctor, I will. I will tell her."

He had been pacing, but now he stopped and turned to face her. And in a flash, she understood the nickname. The Oncoming Storm. She'd teased him mercilessly about it when he confessed it to her months ago. Not since the Racnoss had she seen that cold fury in his eyes, and that time it had not been directed at her. Now it was, and it sent a chill down her spine. His eyes, still Philip's striking dark blue, had been drained of any beauty or warmth, leaving behind hard flint. Staring into them was like seeing…her brain searched for metaphors but came up only with clichés, though they suddenly seemed apt. Lightening on the horizon, yes. A snake ready to strike. So cold, so calculating, so very angry.

His voice when he spoke was quiet, although it rang louder in her ears than his shout. "If you try that…if you try to tell her, you'll force me to stop you."

She lifted her chin and tried to look defiant, although her insides were quaking.

He took one step toward her and continued, his voice all silky menace. "I could shut you in the TARDIS, of course, although the old girl might just let you out. She's fond of you." He took another step. "Or, I could denounce you as a witch or a heretic. I'll say you tried to poison me. I'll get you locked up." She recoiled from him. "Oh, don't think I couldn't. You are no one, and I am the king of France."

She knew she should rage right back at him, give as good as she got, like usual. But instead, her eyes filled with tears. That the Doctor would say such things…she couldn't believe it. In a choked voice, wiping the drops away as they fell down her cheeks, she whispered, "But you're not, are you? You're the Doctor. You're my best friend. And I don't recognize you."

This, at least, seemed to penetrate through his anger. His eyes returned to normal and he raised his hand to his mouth as if he too could not believe what he had said. He began backing away from her, and after a few steps, he reached the wall of the chamber and slid to the ground. He put his head in his hands and began to cry. She stared at him for a long moment, before going down on her knees beside him and laying a hand on his knee. He grasped her hand in his own and gripped it for several minutes until he got himself under control. Then he reached for her other hand too and met her eyes. "Donna, I'm so sorry. I don't know why I said that. It was unforgivable. I would never hurt you."

She said nothing.

"Donna, please. I'm sorry."

She looked at him. He looked genuinely apologetic and upset, it was true. But she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to forget the way he had looked at her and spoken to her. And she could still find nothing to say to him.

"You can tell her. If you think it's what you have to do. But…all I want is some time with her, Donna. A few weeks. Can I have that?"

The Time Lord was pleading with her for a few moments of happiness. Her heart wrenched. "Doctor, you see the time lines, not me. Are you sure you can keep this under control?"

"Yes, Donna, I promise."

"Doctor…what if she gets pregnant?"

"What about it?"

"You want the heir to France to be half alien?"

"What? No! Time Lords haven't reproduced through sex for a long time. That…that part of who I am right now is Philip. So if it happens, it's all the same in the end."

"So you keep saying." She sighed. "I don't know what to say, Doctor. I've told you before, I think it's wrong. But I don't want to hurt you or her. So I won't say anything, for now. But…"

"Thank you, Donna."

"I'm not done. I can't promise that I won't change my mind, if it seems like things are getting worse." She looked defiantly at him.

"I understand. Can I just ask…will you tell me first?"

"So you can lock me up."

He looked devastated. "No."

"I don't know, Doctor. I can't promise. I just don't know anymore."

"Please, Donna. Just come to me first. I swear to you, I won't hurt you. I was panicked when I said that…I never would really do it. Just…if it comes to that, give me one chance to fix things, before you tell Rosalind anything."

"Alright."

"Thank you, Donna."

She nodded and stood. "I have to go help Rosalind get ready for bed. It's a big day tomorrow."

And she left him without looking back.


	16. Ch 16: The Journey and the Destination

**Chapter 16: The Journey and the Destination**

**They lay**, Philip and Rosalind, cuddled together in a sweaty heap. Her head was pillowed on his chest, her hair damp near the scalp. Her arm lay over him, holding herself to him. Their legs were intertwined, their breathing slowly steadying. Turning her head, she planted several open-mouthed kisses on his chest before lapsing once again into immobility. His hand played across the base of her spine, his fingers trailing gently. She smiled against him and squirmed. "Tickles." When he didn't stop, she made a softly aggrieved noise. "I don't want to move. Stop it." He relented and laid his hand flat on the small of her back. He murmured, "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

She giggled. "You said something about that, I think, a while back." She briefly pressed her teeth into his skin. "Quite loudly."

Laughter bubbled up from his own throat. "You are a wicked, wicked girl."

"Correction. I am your wicked, wicked wife."

"You are indeed. My wife. Mine." His arm tightened convulsively around her.

After a while she said, "The second time was clearly the charm."

He hummed contentedly. The first time they had made love, the night before, had been…well. Not a disaster, certainly. But they had both been exhausted by the marriage festivities, which had lasted a full day. She had been nervous and unsure of what to do; he had been almost painfully aroused. These factors resulted in an experience that was uncomfortable for her and embarrassingly short for him. Thankfully, their awkwardness with each other afterward had quickly faded. They had both sensed that they needed rest and they had fallen asleep in each other's arms. When he had awoken early the next morning, her naked body pressed against his had sent his heart rate skyrocketing, but he had clamped down on his desire and had taken the time to wake her gently, and then to relax her, spoil her, and learn her, with much more satisfactory results for both of them.

Some indeterminate time later, Rosalind peeled herself off of him and found her dressing gown, carelessly crumpled on the floor by the side of the bed. As she drew it over one arm, he reached out sleepily and bunched one edge of the garment in his hand. "Where do you think you're going?"

She detached herself from his grip. "I'll be back in a moment. I have something for you." She disappeared in the direction of the privy and then emerged and bathed her face in the washbasin on a table near the window. She quickly wrapped her hair and pinned it into a loose bun. She then opened a chest that sat at the foot of the bed and dug around for a moment, emerging with a small rectangular package wrapped in velvet cloth. She returned and climbed into bed, sitting cross-legged in front of him, gripping the package tightly. She looked nervous, and that realization almost made him laugh out loud. She really had no idea how astonishingly grateful he was to have her, to be here in this room at this instant. After a few moments, she looked up to find him watching her, and she smiled tentatively. "I didn't know what to get you for a wedding gift. I mean…you're the king of France. You do not lack for very much."

He reached up and stroked her cheek. "You are my gift. I don't need anything else." Her smile was blinding and made his throat tighten with happiness. She gripped his hand and kissed it. "I know. I love you. But I wanted you to have something special to remember today. Or rather, yesterday." She pushed the package into his lap.

He sat up and propped himself against the pillows before reaching for it. He slowly unwound the cloth. Inside he found a book. Small in size but quite thick, it had a beautiful deep green leather cover that had been tooled in an intricate vine pattern. He cracked open the front cover and read the opening of the text, which was in French: "Carles li reis, nostre emperere magnes/Set anz tuz pleins ad estet en Espaigne." It rang a bell immediately, and after he scanned a few more lines, he recognized it. "This is Roland, isn't it?"

"Yes. The first book we ever discussed."

He smiled at her. "On that early morning ride. I remember. Where did you find this?"

"I copied it."

"You did?" He looked more carefully at the script and realized that he did indeed recognize her hand. "But that is wonderful. When did you have the time to do this?"

She took a deep breath. "I did it before I met you." He looked at her, puzzled. "I…I made this for Rob, about three years ago. After he died, before we left, I took it from his room. I wanted you to have it, but it was a bit worn from use." She reached out and touched it lightly. "Rob read it all the time. So I found an artisan here in Paris to do a new binding and I found a painter to add four leaves with miniatures. They just finished it a few days ago."

He was stunned. "You're giving me Rob's book?" She nodded, and he could see tears in her eyes. "Oh my love," he murmured, pulling her into his arms. "I can't imagine anything better." He held her fiercely for a few moments before releasing her. Together they paged through the book, and he admired the script and the illuminations. At the end he found, on the final folium, a scribal explicit. He read, "Written by Rosalind of Northumberland, for her dear brother Robert, in Durham, 2 Ides May, the year of Our Lord 1197." Under this, she had written an addendum, apparently very recently: "Given to my beloved Philip on the occasion of our wedding, in Paris, on the Kalends of September, the year of Our Lord 1200." Placing the book aside, he cupped her face and kissed her gently, touching her forehead with his. "My dearest. Thank you."

Then, his mood shifting suddenly, he bounced up from the bed. "I have something for you, too!" Kneeling down, he retrieved a small, polished wooden box from the floor deep under the bed. He handed it to her and now it was his turn to sit, watching his love open a gift.

She stroked the outside of the box for a long time, until he began to drum his fingers on his thigh in impatience. She shot him a small smile and lifted the lid. Her lips parted as she reached out to touch what was revealed. It was a necklace: a chain of gold on which was suspended a large pendant shaped like a teardrop. The size of the stone was impressive but what gave her real pause was its appearance. It was the deepest and richest of blues, but rather than being transparent or crystalline, it was opaque, dappled with flecks of gold. "Philip, this is beautiful. It looks like…stars in the evening sky."

"It's lapis lazuli."

"I've never seen anything like it. I've never even heard of it."

"That's not surprising. It's from the east. Egypt, I think, and points beyond. I bought this in Acre when I was there. I thought you might enjoy having something from the land oversea."

She touched it with one hesitant finger. "You bought this so long ago?"

"I did. I thought it very beautiful. But I never found the right woman to give it to. Until now." While not entirely untrue, his words were deceptive. He had, in fact, conceived the idea the night before to bring her something from the lands she had so dreamed of visiting. So he had stepped into the TARDIS, piloted it to Acre, and gone to the market. He had almost immediately seen the necklace at a jewelry stall and thought—as she said—that it looked like the stars captured in stone. It seemed perfect, for Philip and Rosalind and for himself as well.

He lifted it from the box. "Let me put it on you." She turned and he draped the necklace over her head and clasped it, running his hands down over her shoulders to push off her dressing gown. She reached and caught the gown before it fell away entirely, but when she turned, her shoulders were bare and the necklace lay cradled in the hollow of her throat. He swallowed. "Clearly I was right to wait. It was meant to be around your neck."

"Thank you. I love it. I love you." She kissed him with a passion that left him breathless. He fought the urge simply to throw her down and make love to her again. Just a few minutes more. He said, "I have one more gift for you."

"But I only have one for you!"

"That is true. I suppose that puts you in my debt." He leant down and nibbled her neck, prompting a low moan from her. "And once I tell you about your second gift we shall discuss your payment." He grew distracted by the texture of her skin under his lips and continued to explore until she cleared her throat. "My present, please."

"Oh yes." He lifted his head and shifted back a bit, putting space between them so he could focus. "Well. I have been planning a fortress near one of my southern ports. The location is called Aigues Mortes, near the mouth of the Rhône, and it will allow for the protection of trade routes and serve as a launching point for crusades heading east. I need to visit and check on the progress of the initial phase of construction, and I will take the opportunity to visit various vassals along the way. It will be a long journey, probably six weeks. I shall leave in a few days so that I can return before the worst of winter."

She looked confused and a bit panicked. "You're leaving me so soon?"

"I hope not. Therein lies the gift. I thought you might like to accompany me."

Her jaw dropped. "You want me to travel with you?"

"Yes."

"To join you on your visits to vassals?"

"Yes."

"To see the Mediterranean?"

He grinned. "Yes."

She covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth on the bed. When she dropped her hands again he saw that she was crying but also smiling her stunning wide grin. He clasped her fingers in his own. "I take it you are pleased?" She nodded, unable to speak. Finally she managed, "My father never…the idea that you would want me with you…" She took a deep breath. "You fulfill all my dreams, did you know that?"

He said, "Your father is a fool. He did not know what a treasure he had. I'm being selfish, really, bringing you along. I don't want to be away from you. Not ever."

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes so soft and loving he thought his heart might break. Then slowly a mischievous smile curled the corners of her mouth. Before he could react, she surged forward, pushing him back onto the bed, pinning him against the sheets. He laughed. "What are you doing?"

She looked down at him. "I believe I have a debt to repay," she replied, before covering his mouth with her own.

**Philip entered** the bedchamber where she sat by the fire and sprawled in a chair. It was late evening, but she had waited up for him, wanting to hear about the outcome of his negotiations with the duke of Burgundy. They had been in Dijon for several days, longer than they had spent with any other vassal thus far, but appropriate for the power and influence of the Burgundian lords.

Without further ado, she asked, "Did you get your treaty?"

"I did. Eudes is a good and loyal man, albeit a bit stubborn in making any concessions whatsoever."

"I suppose that a lord as rich as he can afford to drive a hard bargain. Burgundy is remarkable. All these fairs and markets, all these vineyards."

"Yes, you're right. The dukes have always been challenging to deal with, whether allies or not. Eudes's father, Hugh, was emphatically not an ally; in fact, he was a major thorn in my father's side. And mine, for that matter. As if we didn't have enough problems in the west with the English, to have a threat on our eastern border…" He shook his head. "My father was no great soldier, so Hugh was able to win some victories that he should not have. Then he tried to take advantage of my youth, when I took the throne, to sway some of my vassals to his side. Fortunately, I was able to put a stop to it." He smiled grimly.

"Did you have to fight a war here?"

"A small one, yes. The major conflict was at Châtillon—we passed it on our way here. I besieged the town and captured it. Eudes was actually in charge of defending it for his father, and I took him as a hostage when I took the town. I was then able to force his father into line. Believe it or not, after all that hostility, Hugh agreed to go on crusade with me, although he stayed on with Richard when I left. He died at Acre, of disease."

She shivered and fingered the pendant she wore around her neck. "I am so glad you did not stay there longer."

"As am I, believe me. And now here we are, negotiating with Hugh's son, my former hostage."

"You are fortunate that Eudes does not seem to hold a grudge about that."

Philip shrugged. "It's just the way of things. Most eldest sons of great lords have probably been hostages at one point or another, to ensure their fathers' good behavior. In any case, Eudes is now amenable to my lordship."

"And why is that, do you think?"

"I think it's partly his personality. He is simply not as pugnacious or easily offended as his father was."

She thought for a few moments. "Isn't it funny to think…"

"Hmm?"

"Well, we think of states at war, or the interests of states clashing. As if it's something impersonal, you know? But they are ruled by people, who have a variety of personalities. And if those personalities clash, it might mean that states go to war, with all the consequences that arise from that."

"Yes, I suppose so. Conflicts are rarely just personality-based, but often it can be the deciding factor for or against."

"I think it was that way for my father and John. Not that I blame John; my father is so very prickly. But John just couldn't seem to figure out how to keep an alliance intact."

"I confess to being glad of that."

She rewarded him with a soft smile. "I suppose we both should be." After a moment she continued, "But you see what I mean. One man's quirks of temperament might change the world. It's a disturbing amount of power for one person to have. To change history."

He gave her an odd look, staring at her until she raised her eyebrows questioningly at him. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it, and grinned. "I know it is late, but Eudes wondered if we might join him and Alice for dinner."

"Of course. I have not yet eaten." She paused. "Do you know when Alice's baby is due to arrive?"

"A matter of days, I think."

She was silent, gazing into the fireplace. He watched her. "What are you thinking, my love?"

Now it was her turn to startle back to awareness. She looked up at him. "What?"

"You looked miles away all of a sudden. I wondered what you were thinking."

She sighed. "I was thinking of having a baby."

"What about it?"

"That I want to. For you. With you." He couldn't help smiling at her when she said that, but her face remained solemn. "But it's frightening, too."

"Because of your mother." It was not a question.

"Yes."

He nodded. "I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that?"

She looked at him. "Is this you defying the fate of mankind again?"

"Yep." He popped the 'p'.

"Mmm. Well." She seemed to wish to leave the topic behind. She gave a slight shiver and then she asked, "Where will we be tomorrow?"

"Heading south from here. I thought we'd stop at Cluny."

"Oh, really? I was hoping we could go there. Isn't it the largest church in all of Europe?"

"I believe so. Perhaps the one in Constantinople is bigger? In any case, it is enormous. And beautiful. With an unparalleled library." Her eyes lit up and he laughed. "And I have written ahead, asking Abbot Hugh if we might have a tour."

That revelation earned him a tight embrace and a whispered promise that made his ears flush pink and his skin tingle. Moving away from him but still grinning saucily, she said, "Should we not go into dinner, my lord?"

"Indeed, my lady. The duke and duchess await us." He took her hand and spun her around, making her laugh. "You know, Eudes commented in particular on your beauty and wit. You have made a wonderful impression on him."

She chuckled. "Oh, Philip. Do you think he would have told you if he thought I was hideous and an idiot?" He frowned and she shook her head at him. "All queens are beautiful, didn't you know?"

He reached out for her and drew her to him, kissing her soundly. "But my queen is more beautiful and brilliant than any other."

"I am glad you think so," she murmured. "Now, shall we go?"

**When he** made love to her that night, his hands caressed her throat and hair as he whispered endearments in her ear. It was one of her greatest pleasures, the sound of his voice at these moments; although she didn't always understand what he said, his tone was so redolent with love and desire. This night, by chance, his fingers drifted across her temples. Suddenly she was torn from her pleasurable haze, buffeted by images she did not understand. She gasped and floundered slightly, clinging to his back like a drowning woman. A strange blue…guard post? Upright coffin? With small windows around the top quarter and words on it she could not read, although she recognized the letters. Strange flying things that shone like the steel of a sword. Was that her own face? Painted in an exaggerated fashion, and yet hers, surely? Images of fire and of destruction. And then her real self, looking like herself, in Durham, back in her homespun gown, bent over her manuscripts, then turning her head and smiling…

With a wrench the images fled and she was back on the bed. Philip had collapsed on top of her and his breath was still racing, his skin slick, his hands flat on the sheets on either side of her. It must have only lasted a few seconds. What had that been? What in the world were those things that she had seen?

He turned his head and kissed her cheek, near her ear. "Are you alright?" His breath was still coming in pants. He seemed unaware of what had occurred. "Of course, my love, wonderful," she replied. Should she tell him? How could she? She had no idea what had just happened. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, but the images did not return. Perhaps she was just tired from the stresses of the journey. Perhaps, she concluded uneasily, she simply needed sleep.

**Rosalind stood** on the last few inches of dry sand just above the waterline, her hand shading her eyes, looking south toward the horizon. They were at the last stop on their journey, the town of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, which sat on the coast near the mouth of the Rhône in a region Philip referred to as the Camargue. The day was hot and close; Philip's man at Aigues Mortes had told them that the autumn had been unusually warm that year. By almost any measure the weather was unpleasant, oppressive, and yet she relished it, having never experience heat like this. Certainly it could be warm in Northumberland, but never this intense, driving heat. The moisture in the air clung to her, making her sweat even under her light gown.

She parted her lips and tasted the salt tang of the air. She reached down and unlaced the soft shoes she wore; they fell on the sand next to her with soft plops. Stripping off her stockings, she moved forward, to a point where the sea lapped at her feet. She reflexively braced herself for the cold of the water, but it never came. Rather, the eddies caressing her toes were as warm as bathwater. She looked down, astonished. The sea near Durham was so cold it made her knees and hips ache when she stood in it ankle-deep. And the color of this water—not the black-blue of the northern waters but a luminous turquoise, spreading flat out before her as far as she could see. She shook her head. This was another world. She had seen things on these last days of the journey of which she had never even dreamed. Birds of tremendous size and colored a shocking shade of pink, with long attenuated legs and beaks like inverted smiles. Clusters of blackberry bushes so laden with fruit—in October—that they almost bent to meet the ground. Salt flats on which herds of tiny horses grazed, searching out the sparse vegetation. She thought, as she always did when she saw something new or remarkable, of her brother. "Rob, you should see this," she murmured. "The Mediterranean. I have come so very far. So far from you. I wish…oh, I wish you could be here."

She turned back and saw Philip, waiting for her a short distance away. She felt the surge of love she always experienced when she met his intense gaze. She brushed aside the haze of gold that was her hair, whipped across her face by the wind, and walked forward into his arms.

**A week **after they returned to Paris, on a Thursday evening, Philip sought out Rosalind at the end of the day. He found her in her chamber, standing at her favorite vantage point in her room, gazing down over the Seine and the north bank. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. "Donna said you were feeling unwell today. Are you ill?"

She reached up and behind her, stroking the back of his head, holding him to her. "I was sick, but I am not ill."

He turned her around in his arms, looking down at her quizzically.

"Philip…I think I am pregnant."


	17. Chapter 17: The Heat and the Chill

**Chapter 17: The Heat and the Chill**

**Author's Note: ** The character of Dame Beatrice is based loosely on the woman known as Trotula of Salerno, who lived in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries. Trotula was both classically educated in medicine and highly experienced as a practitioner treating women's illnesses. Famous in her own time, she wrote (or had attributed to her) a number of the earliest gynecological treatises in European history.

**Donna sa**t down on the edge of Rosalind's bed, laying a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, slowly rousing her from sleep. Rosalind's eyelids fluttered and opened. She smiled. "Donna. Good morning."

"I brought you a cup of water."

"Thank you." Rosalind heaved herself up and Donna arranged pillows behind her back so she could rest partly upright. Rosalind accepted the cup and sipped, then began to fan herself ineffectually with her own hand. "God, it's hot. What time is it?"

"About eight o'clock."

"And already stifling. Heaven help me today, with this little stove burning away inside of me." She stroked her belly, with a smile that belied her complaint.

Donna stood, crossed the room, and returned with a basin that she set on the bedside table. She dipped a cloth in it, wrung it out, and smoothed it over Rosalind's brow. She wet it and wrung it out again, then rolled it and draped it over the back of the girl's neck. Rosalind closed her eyes. "Oh, that feels marvelous."

"One of the other ladies said that this is the hottest summer that she can remember."

"It's terrible. I hate to say it, but in mid-summer, I think I may prefer Durham to Paris. It was never this hot at home. And it did not smell this bad."

Donna giggled. "It is awful, isn't it?"

"Oh God! I was at some outdoor function with Philip a few days ago, and it was all I could do to keep a pleasant look on my face. Can't have the queen screwing up her nose and mouth at everything, now can you?"

"He should not be dragging you out in this heat."

"I insisted, Donna. I get so bored, staying inside. I almost had to cry to get him to take me. You know Philip—given his way, he'd never let me out of this room."

Donna did know. It was now over a year since she had first laid eyes on the real Philip in the forests of northern England. She had given up on asking the Doctor when they would be returning to their former life in the TARDIS. Once Rosalind returned from the journey south and discovered that she was pregnant, Donna had known that they were not going to leave in the foreseeable future. And truth be told, Donna was herself now torn on the issue of whether and when they should return. On the one hand, she missed her family dearly; she had never gone this long without seeing her grandfather. Of course, she knew that they could arrive back on the day they left, so Wilf would never know the difference, but still. She knew, and she missed him.

But on the other hand, she had grown to love Rosalind like a best friend, or even a sister. Slowly, the other ladies-in-waiting who served the queen had fallen away and were only called upon on occasions when Rosalind needed to wear a particularly elaborate outfit or hair dressing. All other times, Donna served as her sole attendant and—other than Philip—was her closest companion. She did not want to leave her friend before the baby was born, which would be any day now. She hoped desperately that the heat wave would break just a bit before Rosalind went into labor. Donna had developed a sense, from hearing stories told by the other ladies, of the dangers of childbirth in this era, for both the mother and the baby. Although they did not use the modern terms for them, the women had described what sounded to Donna like hemorrhages, infections, dehydration, shock, breech babies, and other issues easily dealt with in a modern hospital but often fatal in this time and place. This was a frightening prospect, to say the least. She knew that Rosalind worried about the birth, given what had happened to her own mother. The last thing the scared girl needed was to have to deal with this sweltering heat in addition to everything else.

These thoughts brought her mind back to something about which she needed to remind the queen. "Remember, my lady, that the midwife will visit you shortly."

"I am anxious to meet her. She is thought to be one of the best."

"So they say."

"What is her name again?"

"Dame Beatrice. She is apparently from southern Italy, but has been in Paris for many years. She speaks French, the other ladies assure me."

Rosalind sighed. "And when will she be here?"

"In about an hour."

"Ugh. I suppose I need to dress. But that will require moving." Rosalind closed her eyes and stuck out her lip in a simulated pout.

"Come on, you. Up and out of bed. I have a lovely linen dress for you to wear today, which will keep you cool, I promise."

**Dame Beatrice** of Salerno was scrupulously punctual for her appointment with the queen. She was ushered in by another of the ladies-in-waiting at precisely nine o'clock; the bells of Notre-Dame were still ringing outside the windows as she moved to greet her patient. She was not, at first glance, a figure who would seem destined to garner much notice or renown. Tiny, old, and humbly dressed in a plain gown of rough blue cloth, her wrinkled face peered out under a white wimple that entirely covered her hair. Her hands, held clasped in front of her waist, were small and weathered by work. Yet she held herself straight as a rod and her eyes sparkled with intelligence and interest as they roved around the room and then came to rest on the queen. Rosalind, who had seated herself in one of the high-backed chairs in her room, looked bemused at the sight of this small wizened lady who was the most sought after midwife in Paris. She said, "Dame Beatrice? It is an honor to meet you."

"The honor is mine, your grace." Beatrice's French was heavily accented with her native Italian. Even with the TARDIS's help, Donna found it hard to follow; Rosalind's furrowed brow suggested that she too had to concentrate to understand what the woman said.

Beatrice made no move after she bobbed a perfunctory curtsey to Rosalind. Rosalind, meanwhile, seemed to be waiting for the older woman to speak. Finally, Donna grew impatient and said, "Dame Beatrice, did you wish to examine the queen?"

Beatrice nodded, never taking her eyes off Rosalind. "If your grace permits it, it would be of help."

"Of course…" Rosalind hesitated. "Shall I undress?"

"Yes, naturally. It is the only way I can see you and feel the baby. And lay down on the bed."

With just such an exam in mind, Donna had dressed Rosalind in a loose gown that was easily shed. The queen scooted onto her bed and lay fully extended, her head and shoulders propped on pillows. Dame Beatrice approached the bed and, somewhat disconcertingly, climbed up on it, kneeling next to Rosalind. Donna supposed that this was the only way the tiny woman was going to get a good look at her patient. She extended those small, worn hands and began to feel over Rosalind's belly, pressing and prodding. Rosalind gasped softly at the vigor of her touch. Beatrice grinned. "It takes a little force to feel where the baby is. I will not hurt you or him, my lady." She continued her examination.

Rosalind seemed to wish to break the silence that fell as Beatrice focused on her task. "The king's doctor has been to see me a number of times but he has never examined me in this way. In fact, he has barely touched me."

Beatrice snorted. "A university man? A master?"

"Yes. Master John of Amiens."

"Hmm. These masters of medicine. They know their medical texts. They know their Galen and their Aristotle. But how many babies have they delivered, eh? The wee ones rarely behave by the book. There is more involved than the masters know. You cannot understand childbirth without feeling and touching."

Rosalind nodded. Donna saw the small smile on the queen's face and knew that she was already beginning to like this brusque little lady. Rosalind spoke again: "I understand that you come from southern Italy, Dame Beatrice. You and I are both far from home here in Paris."

"Yes, I am from Salerno. It is south of Naples, my lady. That is where I began my studies. I even learned some Galen and Aristotle, from teachers at the university of Naples who were willing to teach a woman. But I came to Paris many years ago."

"And how many births have you attended?" This was Donna, feeling protective of her friend.

Beatrice shot her an appraising glance from her brown button eyes. "I lost count a decade ago and more. Hundreds and hundreds. And I gave birth to six of my own, of course."

Rosalind asked, "Have you attended many queens and princesses?"

"Some, my lady. But I find that I forget a woman's status when she is in labor. The sheets may be finer or less fine, the chamber larger or smaller, but the pain is the same, no matter what the rank." She sat back on her heels. "The baby's head is still up, your grace." She indicated a spot under Rosalind's ribs. "We must hope that he turns before you go into labor." She narrowed her eyes. "What do you know of the births of the women in your family? Your mother?"

Donna stiffened, and Rosalind's eyes widened, although her voice was steady as she said, "My mother died giving birth to me."

"Ah." Beatrice nodded. "Forgive me for probing, my lady, but do you know what happened? What went wrong?"

Rosalind shook her head. "My father would never speak of it. My aunt said there was a great deal of blood, but that is all I know."

"It is a shame we do not know more. Still. Our mothers are not always an accurate indicator of what will happen to us." She climbed off the bed and Donna brought Rosalind her gown. Rosalind quickly dressed and returned to her chair. Beatrice, having sought permission with a gesture and a glance, sat on a low bench at Rosalind's feet. Beatrice said, "You must get your rest in the coming weeks, my lady, to conserve your strength. But do not be completely idle. Walk some, if only around the castle, every day. The masters would have you lie still for days at a time, but the birth is hard work and we do not want you weakened from too much sloth."

"When will you come again, Dame Beatrice?"

"If your grace permits, I will return in three days, to check on the baby's position. If he has not moved, I will try to turn him."

"Forgive me, Beatrice, but you refer to the baby as 'he'. Do you know that it is a boy?"

Beatrice smiled. "No, my lady. I can offer potions and charms before conception that can help ensure a boy. But it is too late to change things now. I merely say 'he' because I know your grace must be hoping for a son and heir."

Rosalind looked at the old woman. "I'm sure my husband is, yes. I want a healthy baby. And I want to survive, as my mother did not."

Beatrice nodded, meeting the queen's eyes. "Childbirth is not a matter for men, my lady. I cannot promise to fulfill the king's wishes. But I will do my very best to fulfill yours."

**After Beatrice** left, Donna busied herself with organizing and folding the baby clothes that were being produced by the palace seamstresses in astonishing quantity. Rosalind sat at her desk, trying to work on her Aeneid manuscript. She found it uncomfortable to perch at her stool while so heavily pregnant, and difficult to do her work over the top of her protruding belly, but she found it even more frustrating not to make progress, so she did a little every day, however slowly. Today, however, she had a hard time focusing, and not just because of the oppressive heat of the room. She needed to ask Donna something but did not know how to broach the subject. Finally, as was her wont, she chose the direct route.

"Donna, have you ever had visions?"

Donna paused in her work and looked up, but Rosalind was facing away from her, continuing to write, her posture relaxed. It seemed like a casual question, so Donna did not think hard before answering. "Not to my knowledge, why?" She waited, but the girl did not respond. After a few moments, curiosity overcame her and she repeated, "Why? Do you?"

At that Rosalind laid down her pen. "I think I may be." Now she turned to face Donna and Donna could see the worry lines on her brow. She laid down the clothes and moved to sit on a chair nearer Rosalind's desk.

"Has this happened more than once?"

"Yes. It happened again last night. It started months ago."

"At any particular time?"

Rosalind blushed furiously.

"What?" Now Donna was truly interested.

"Well…it's when…when Philip and I are intimate."

Donna choked back a laugh. "I'm sure he'd be flattered to know he can make you have visions during…"

Rosalind swatted at her leg. "Donna, you're terrible!"

"Hang on—last night? You two are still…" Rosalind turned crimson again, and Donna relented. "I'm sorry. Tell me. When did it start?"

"When we were on our journey after the wedding. He…oh God, this is embarrassing. You see, he likes to talk to me while we're…"

Donna arched an eyebrow. "Now that's shocking."

"Hush. He likes to talk and he touches my face and hair. And sometimes I get these flashes of things I don't understand. I don't recognize anything in these images, except my own face. Although even that is strange; sometimes it looks just like me and sometimes I'm painted…well, like a prostitute."

Donna nodded slowly, suddenly on guard. She didn't like the sound of that. She knew from the Doctor that Rose had worn a great deal of makeup. Her mind was beginning to spin through possible explanations but then she snapped back to attention, as Rosalind was continuing to speak. "Some of the visions—usually of me—feel very tender. It's hard to explain, but there's emotion that comes along with what I see. But many of them are so frightening. They are of…machines that I can't even conceive of."

"What do they look like?"

"I drew a sketch of the one that appears most often. Wait a moment…" Rosalind turned and dug around on the table next to her desk, which was covered with assorted scraps of parchment. "Aha! Here. Now tell me, have you ever seen anything like that?"

Donna took the parchment from her hand and looked down. There, on the mottled surface, was a rough ink sketch. Rosalind was no great artist, but still, there was no mistaking it. She was looking at a drawing of the TARDIS.

**Donna found** Philip closeted with a number of his clerks, working on the text of various royal decrees. She ignored any protocol, barged right into the room, and without asking his permission told the young men to clear out. He felt a wave of mild annoyance, but the look on her face gave him pause and he nodded at them to go. They scurried out and forbore to smirk, at least not in his presence. The fiction of Donna as his mistress was still in place because it proved useful and because the one person whose opinion mattered—his wife—knew the truth. When they had left he asked, "What is it, Donna?"

In response she slapped a scrap of parchment down in front of him. On it was a pen sketch of the TARDIS. He returned his gaze to her, perplexed. "What is this? Why are you drawing the TARDIS?"

"I didn't. Rosalind did."

He was silent for a long moment, staring at her and feeling his heart speed up. He felt a wave of nausea overtake him and then fade. Finally he managed to croak, "What?" He stood up and simultaneously felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him dizzy. "Wha…how?"

"She tells me this morning, after the midwife's visit, that she's having visions. She says…" Donna rubbed her forehead. "Oh heaven help me, I can't believe I'm talking to you about this! She says she sees things when you two are having sex. She sees herself—and I'm quoting here—'painted like a prostitute'. I guess that's Rose. She says she sees machines that she doesn't recognize and can't comprehend their purpose. And then she drags this out and asks me if I've ever seen anything like it."

"Oh no no no no no…" He ran his hands violently through his hair.

"Oh yes! You've been," she waved her hands in the direction of his head "sending off vibes to her or something. And she's worried she's having visions or going insane!"

"What did you say when she showed you this?"

"After I picked myself up off the floor, you mean? I told her to ask you."

"That's it?"

"Yes, that's it! I may have agreed not to tell her the truth, but I'll be damned if I'll lie to her for you."

"Okay. Yes. You're right." He slumped back into his chair. "Oh gods, Donna. What am I going to do?"

"I think, Doctor, that this is the moment when you might have to try the truth."


	18. Chapter 18: The Case and the Verdict

**Chapter 18: The Case and the Verdict**

**A few** hours after his conversation with Donna, the Doctor fidgeted in his seat. He was in the room in which he heard court cases, most of them appeals that had worked their way up from local judges because the petitioners believed justice had not been done. Often, they were right; try as he might, corruption still was a major problem in the local courts. This was usually one of his favorite tasks as king—trying to right wrongs, however minor. He tried to focus his mind on the pleas from the people appearing before him. They were often poor people in desperate straits, and they deserved his full attention, not to be brushed aside because of a personal crisis. But despite his best efforts, he barely heard them; his mind and heart were screaming two questions at him: what could he tell her? And having told her, how could he manage not to lose her? The first question he could not yet answer. The second provoked only the most visceral of reactions. He would not lose her. He could not.

Donna had been kind not to rub his nose in the fact that she had warned him about all of this. His lies and omissions were coming home to roost, and although she had been brusque and direct with him as always, Donna forbore to gloat. He knew she loved Rosalind too, and no doubt she was concerned about the effect of this on all three of them. He rubbed his brow. He had opened himself in unprecedented ways to Rosalind, he knew that, but somehow he had, without realizing it, allowed portions of his brain that he should have kept sealed to meld with hers. It had happened when they made love, Rosalind had apparently told Donna. He could not remember connecting with her mind during those moments, but then again, making love to her was so overwhelming a sensation, even after all these months, that he didn't doubt it could have happened without him noticing.

When the last case had been cleared away—happily, enough of his brain was functioning to offer judgments with the guidance of his clerks—he nodded to his ministers and left the courtroom. He needed to go to his own chamber and collect his thoughts. Then he needed to find his wife.

But she had already found him. She had clearly climbed onto his bed—the bed they had shared countless times—to sit and wait for him in comfort, but then she had fallen asleep. In spite of all the stress he felt, he could not help but smile at the sight of her. Her pregnancy made her tired, and he had teased her often about her propensity to nap wherever and whenever. Now she lay curled on her side, one hand pillowed under her head, the other resting protectively on her belly. She wore only a light linen dress with short cap sleeves but the heat was so intense in the room that there was a light sheen of sweat on her skin and the hair at her temples was plastered to her scalp. Looking down at her, he felt a wave of love and possessiveness so intense his knees weakened and he abruptly sat down on the bed beside her. She stirred as the mattress moved underneath her and opened her eyes. "Philip?" she murmured, yawning and stretching her legs.

"It's me, my love."

She rolled toward him. He helped her to sit up and she said, "I'm thirsty. Do you have any water?"

He moved to bring her a cup. When he returned, she was grimacing. He felt a stab of anxiety. "What is it?"

"Leg cramp," she gasped, rotating her left foot. "God, that hurts."

He took her leg and massaged her calf vigorously with the heel of one palm until she exhaled loudly. "Better. Thank you." He noticed the lack of an endearment. She rarely, in their private moments, allowed an exchange to go by without peppering her sentences with words of love. Their absence rang louder than any outright recrimination, and he closed his eyes, bracing himself for what was to come. After a moment he gathered his courage and raised his eyes to hers. She simply looked at him for several beats, that beloved amber gaze full of questioning and emotion, and then, when she realized that he would not speak first, she said, "You saw Donna."

"Yes."

"She showed you my drawing."

"Yes."

"Philip, I could tell she had seen it before—the box in the drawing. These things I'm seeing when we make love, I'm not imagining them. Somehow you're sending me images, and Donna has seen them too. What am I to think about that? You and Donna have both told me that you are not lovers, and I believe you, so I assume you haven't shown these things to her in that way. So does that mean that you have both seen them in reality? But that cannot be…" She pressed her fingers to her temples. "I don't know what to think. Help me, Philip. Help me to understand."

He didn't know where to begin. He had joked so often, in this incarnation, about his unstoppable gob, but it was silenced now, by fear and love and desperation. So he made a decision. He pulled the sonic screwdriver out of a specially-constructed pocket in the interior of his tunic, pointed it at the corner of his bedchamber, and pushed a button. With a soft whoosh, the perception filter was lifted and the TARDIS appeared. Rosalind had regarded the sonic screwdriver with surprise when he revealed it, but once the ship materialized, her attention was captured fully. She clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at it, transfixed. She then lowered her hand and whispered, "That's it." She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and approached it. She reached out a shaking hand and ran it over the wood of the machine. She whirled to face him, her hand still resting on the corner of the box. "Philip, this is what I saw."

He smiled sadly at her. "I know."

"But what is it?"

He snapped his fingers and the door swung open. He reached his hand out to her. "Will you come with me, Rosalind?"

She regarded him, standing there at the threshold of this machine from her visions. He met her solemn gaze unflinchingly, trying to fill his own eyes with all the love and reassurance he could muster. After what seemed like an eternity, she reached out and took his hand.

He led her into the TARDIS. Like every first-time visitor, she immediately noticed the unexpected size of the interior, but unlike many, who cried out and generally made much fuss about it, she merely gave a soft gasp and murmured something under her breath that he didn't catch. He guided her through the console room and into a corridor, forcibly slowing his step to match her somewhat ungainly gait. He led her deep into the ship and brought her into a room with low lighting. In it was a bed, and on the bed lay the prostrate form of a man. The Doctor motioned for her to approach and she did, slowly. Once she was close enough to see the face of the man on the bed she gave a whimper and stepped back unsteadily, her legs buckling under her. He caught her under the arms and guided her to the floor.

"Philip," she whispered faintly, "that's you."

"Yes and no. In fact, that is Philip II, the king of France."

Slowly she freed herself from his arms and turned her head to face him, reaching up to touch his cheek. "Then who are you?"

He said, "Let me take you somewhere more comfortable." She opened her mouth to object and he quickly added, "I promise I will tell you everything"

She nodded assent. He helped her up, led her back to the console room, and settled her in a seat. She crossed her arms over her belly and looked around her. "I have seen this room, too," she said. Then she turned her eyes back to him. "Who are you? What is all this?"

He took a deep breath. And he began to tell her.

She listened in absolute silence to his entire litany, which took quite a while to get through. When he stumbled to a halt, she remained quiet for so long, her eyes on her hands, that he whispered, "Please, Rosalind, talk to me."

She looked up at him. "I want to see your real face. Can you show it to me?"

Startled, he stammered for a moment, and then said, "I can't change back without a great deal of pain; plus there would also be the danger of someone coming to find the king and me not looking like him. I'd prefer not to do it until I'm going to do it permanently."

"But can you show me with your mind?"

"I can, but…"

She cut him off. "Then do it."

He sat on the arm of her chair and gently turned her head toward him. He fastened his fingers to her temples and closed his eyes. Determined not to inundate her with his roiling emotions or anything else that make her more upset than she already was, he focused on simply showing her the face of his tenth incarnation. She gasped when the connection was made, but when he tried to pull his hands away she held them to her, and so he relaxed and continued showing her the image until she dropped her hands. Leaning back, he removed his fingers and watched her face as she opened her eyes. "You look so different," she said. "But your eyes are the same. Different color, of course. But the same."

She shook her head and stood up slowly. She allowed him to help her, not flinching away from his touch. He took a modicum of comfort from this, but still felt sick with anxiety. He wanted her to scream at him, to beat at him with her fists, to rail against what he had done. Her anger he could take, but this… This quiet thoughtfulness was agony.

Once upright she said, "My baby. Is it normal? Human?"

"Yes. The…reproductive parts of me are human. He or she will be fully human, will be Philip's child."

She nodded. "I'm going back to my room. I need some time. Would you find me tomorrow morning?"

He swallowed. He desperately wanted her to stay with him, to talk to him. But how could he say no? "Yes, of course."

She turned to go, pausing at the door of the TARDIS to look back at the console room and at him. He said, "I love you, Rosalind. Whatever else you think of me, please believe that." She murmured assent, but she would not meet his eyes before she disappeared across the threshold.

**The next** morning he arrived at her door early but found her already awake, standing in her accustomed place at her window. He wondered if she had rested. She certainly looked tired. He probably looked even worse; he had not slept, but rather had spent a terrible night imagining worst-case scenarios, which basically consisted of having to leave her. When she heard his tap and the creak of the door opening, she turned to face him. Without preamble she said, "I have questions."

"Of course." Despite everything, he almost smiled. No hysterics, not from his girl. Just questions and analysis.

"First, let me make sure I understand what you told me. Donna is from the earth, but hundreds of years in the future. You, on the other hand, are from…" she gestured vaguely up toward the sky, "a star."

"Yes."

"And you came here in your time ship because another group of people from another star left something behind that caused the accident that killed Rob, stopped the marriage with Blanche, and changed the path of France's future. So you first tried to prevent that accident, but when that didn't work, you married me to preserve the alliance, produce an heir, and save France."

"Yes."

"And once all this was fixed your plan was to awaken Philip, switch places with him, and leave."

"Yes."

She thought for a moment. "After Rob's accident, why didn't you just get in the time ship and go back and pick up the thing that caused it? Once you knew what happened, why didn't you stop it?"

"I can't do that. Once I join a timeline, I can't replay it. It causes too many problems."

"What problems?"

He sighed. "It's hard to explain. It's called a paradox. If I loop back on myself in inappropriate ways, it can destroy the entire world."

Her gaze sharpened. "Has this happened to you before?"

"Yes. And I learned from it. I'm not going to let anything like that happen here, to you."

She nodded slowly. "So there are rules that even you have to follow? You, who seem like a god, with all your powers?"

"I'm not a god. And yes, there are rules." He paused and when she did not speak he said, "Do you believe me?"

She shrugged and turned her gaze back to the window. "I believe the evidence of my own eyes, my own senses. And as astonishing as your story is, it explains some things. Why Rob's horse behaved the way it did. And why…" She stopped.

"What?"

"Why you wanted to marry me so badly."

Suddenly he saw where her train of thought had led her: the idea that he had married her only as a way to move a piece on a chessboard, to achieve a goal. He had a vivid image of her torturing herself the previous night, questioning the genuineness of all the emotion that had passed between them. Abandoning his cautious hovering at the other side of the room, he strode to her, turned her forcibly in his arms, and kissed the surprised "oh" off of her lips. She pushed against his chest for a moment but then he felt her surrender to him, her fingers reaching up into his hair. After a long embrace, he released her but kept his forehead pressed to hers, his hands cupping her face.

"This is why I wanted to marry you. Because I fell in love with you. Because I can't stand to be away from you." She tried to look away but he held her still. "You told me yourself that there would have been so many other ways to accomplish what I needed to do, once Rob died. But that would have meant leaving you. I couldn't do that."

"Why me? I already thought it was strange, when you were just Philip, that you would pick me. But now… When you've traveled to so many places and times, seen so many people, why would you love me?"

He shook his head. "The absolute truth is that I don't know. You look like someone I cared for once, you know that. That is what drew my attention to you at first. After that…I don't know. It's like you were made to fill a part of me that was missing."

Tears filled her eyes at his words but she blinked them back and pushed him away, turning toward the window. "Part of me wants to ask why you didn't tell me sooner. But I suppose I know the answer to that."

"I couldn't."

"No."

"I thought you wouldn't understand, wouldn't believe me."

"I probably would not have believed you, without seeing these things myself."

"I didn't mean to do that, by the way. To show you those images. It's just…when I'm inside you, I don't remember where I am or what I am doing. I lose control in a way I should not." He paused, watching a blush creep across her cheeks. "And I also didn't tell you because I wanted to switch myself with Philip without you realizing it. To avoid causing you pain. You would not have known the difference, would have had the same husband, so only I would have been hurt."

She swung around to face him at that. "What?" She balled her hands into fists. "You thought what?"

"I…" His reply was cut off when she stepped forward and delivered a stinging slap to his right cheek. "What was that for?" he cried in dismay.

Her eyes blazed as she regarded him, unrepentant. "For thinking that I wouldn't have known if you changed. For thinking that I could be fooled like that, about the man I love." She raised her hand and pointed at him. "I know you. Even if I don't understand everything about you, I know you."

They regarded each other for a long moment, both breathing hard. Finally he whispered, "I'm sorry, love."

She was visibly trembling now, but tried to pull herself together. "So what now? You say you intended to return the real Philip to his life long before this, but you didn't. What will you do now?"

"I don't know. I've already broken so many rules…"

"Broken rules? You said you'd followed the rules. You couldn't save Rob because you followed your rules."

"I followed the rules that exist to avoid destruction in this timeline. But…" He sighed. "Time Lords—what I am—we are supposed to be caretakers. To oversee timelines and tweak things when necessary. Not immerse ourselves in them. Not interfere like this. I've been selfish. I've meddled more than I should have, to be with you."

She looked horrified. "I would never have asked you to do that. I would never have wanted you to risk yourself."

"I know."

She lifted her chin and said, "Doesn't that mean you should go now? Leave the real Philip with me and go? Not take any more risks?"

And, suddenly, there it was. The question that had to be answered. And he found he had no answer for her. He gazed at her hopelessly. "I don't know. I probably should go. But I don't…" He trailed off, his throat closing. Finally he asked, "What do you want me to do?"

She shook her head slowly. "The thing that would cause you the least danger would be to go?" A tear slid down one cheek, then the other. She wiped them away with her fingertips.

"In the long term, yes."

"Then you should go." More tears fell; it now required her whole palm to wipe them from her cheeks, but she refused to look away.

Now he smiled. His brave, beautiful girl. "I probably should."

Her face crumpled and she nodded.

"But I'm not going to."

"What? Why not?"

"I can't. I can't leave you. I love you too much." She put her hands over her face and began to cry in earnest. Gently, tenderly, he took her hands in his, kissing her wet knuckles.

Then she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him, sobbing anew.

"I don't want you to go," she cried. "But I don't want to hurt you or put you in danger."

Relieved laughter bubbled up in his throat. "Leaving you is the only thing that would hurt me." She burrowed further into his neck. "So you'll keep me then, for a while?" She nodded against his tunic and he held her while she wept. Paradoxically, as he held his sobbing wife he felt unreasonably happy. Donna had been right again. It had been right to tell her.

After a time, she lifted her head and looked at him again, calmer but still clearly troubled. "It is so much power that you have. To oversee the fate of so many. So much responsibility. Aren't there others you can share it with?"

"No. I'm the last of my kind."

"I see." She rubbed her eyes and yawned. "We have so much more to talk about. But I'm so tired. I didn't sleep last night."

He laughed wearily. "Nor I."

"Do you have time for a nap? With me?"

He dipped his head and kissed her gently. "For you, I have all the time in the world."

She led him to her bed and they curled up on it together, him curled behind her, one of his hands on her belly and the other holding her hand. He buried his face in her hair and fell asleep almost instantly, lulled by her warmth and the sound of her heartbeat, and the baby's.

**He awoke** several hours later, feeling groggy but well-rested. He reached for his wife and found an empty bed. His heart stilled. Had he only imagined their conversation and reconciliation? But no, he was in her room. Why else would he be there?

There came a tap on the door and Donna put her head inside. "Philip?"

"Donna? Where's Rosalind?"

"She didn't want to disturb you. She got up about an hour ago and came to find me. The baby's coming."


	19. Chapter 19: The Lily and the Wolf

**Chapter 19: The Lily and the Wolf**

**Sitting on** a chair in the hallway outside the birthing room, Donna rested her head on her hands and contemplated the feasibility of dozing for a few minutes. It was unlikely that she would be able to do so, she decided, without falling off the chair onto the flagstone of the floor. Her exhausted mind drifted back to the only other time she had attended a birth. It had been years ago, when she was in her early twenties. A mate from school, Sharon, had gotten pregnant. Her boyfriend had immediately done a runner. When her due date approached, Sharon had asked Donna to be with her in the hospital, and Donna had felt honor-bound to agree. She remembered vividly how horrible she had thought it was, the hour or so that Sharon had suffered through her contractions before calling for an epidural. She thought of how messy it had seemed to her when the baby emerged covered in blood and fluids. But now, thinking back to it, all she could think of was how easy it had been, how cool and efficient, how clean. Compared to this… Her eyes welled with tears, but she impatiently shook her head to clear them. She had no right to cry, and no time.

The first twelve hours of Rosalind's labor had gone well. The birthing room had been set up in Rosalind's own bedchamber, to take advantage of the light and air from the windows. Rosalind had been able to walk around her room and her mood had been cheerful and excited. She had even been able to nap for a short while.

As dusk fell, the tone in the room became more serious. Rosalind turned inward, not talking between her contractions, moaning through them but generally remaining still and calm. Dame Beatrice had spent much of her time—when she was not examining Rosalind to check on the progress of the labor—sitting on a stool by the head of the bed, with the girl's two hands in her own, whispering to her through her contractions. Donna saw now the truth of what Beatrice had said at their first meeting: Rosalind was not a queen at this moment, despite the fact that they were in a large and comfortable room in a palace. She was simply a woman in pain. And whatever Beatrice was saying to her seemed to be working; Rosalind clearly took great comfort from the old woman's presence.

Around midnight things had turned uglier. It was a stiflingly hot night, so little relief came from the open windows, and the rooms were made even hotter by the fire in the fireplace. It seemed almost cruel to have a fire going, but Beatrice explained that it was essential to keep scalding water on hand late in the labor to ensure a supply of clean cloths and instruments. Rosalind streamed with sweat for hours as she labored, and then—even more worryingly—she stopped sweating, her skin hot and sticky with dried perspiration. They tried to coax sips of water into her and to feed her honey from a teaspoon to keep up her strength, but any food or drink only made her retch and she began to refuse them. Donna tried desperately to keep Rosalind cool, fanning her until her arms ached, but it felt like a hopeless effort against the heat of the night and of the fire.

The worst, however, was that Rosalind seemed to lose her focus and her faith that the work and pain were going somewhere. She flailed and screamed during the contractions, despite Beatrice's best efforts to calm her. Beatrice seemed troubled but not alarmed; she pulled Donna aside during one of the lulls and told her that this was the worst part of labor and that once Rosalind began to push it would be better. She then suggested that Donna find the king, update him, and return as quickly as she could.

As Donna left the stifling heat of the room, the relative coolness of the hall had muddled her head for a moment and thus she had ended up in a chair, contemplating the exhausting twenty hours behind her and the hurdles yet to come. But she had no time to linger; she needed to find the Doctor and then get back to Rosalind.

The Doctor was where he said he would be—in his bedchamber—although when she entered she did not see him immediately. Then she spotted him, curled in a chair in the corner, his head on his knees. She was about to ask him what was wrong when she heard Rosalind scream. The sound was muffled by the intervening walls but still clearly audible. He must have heard her screaming all this time, the poor man. She spoke softly. "Doctor?"

He raised a ravaged face to her, and it took a moment before he really seemed to see her. Then he leapt up. "Donna? Is the baby here?"

"No, not yet."

He ran a hand viciously through his hair. "What is that damn midwife doing? What is taking so long?"

"It's childbirth, Doctor. It takes a long time."

"How is Rosalind?"

She hesitated and thought of lying to him, but she could not, not even to comfort him. "Not very good at the moment. It's so hot, and she's in so much pain. She's not had anything to eat or drink all night because it makes her vomit." He keened and, turning, slammed his fist into the wall, muttering to himself. Donna stepped to him and took his hand, smoothing her fingers over his torn knuckles. Despite her own fear and the trauma of seeing Rosalind in pain, she tried her best, for his sake, to take the measured view. "Dame Beatrice says this is the hardest part of labor, that she is making progress, and that she'll be pushing soon. She seems to think it will be okay." As if to belie her statement, another wrenching shriek cut through the silence. He immediately started for the door.

"I'm going. I'm going to take her to the TARDIS."

"Doctor, there's an army of women in there. You'll never get in."

"Just watch me. I'm the king, damn it. They will do as I say"

Donna chuckled. "You're just a scared husband in the eyes of Beatrice and her helpers. Trust me, you won't get in there. And even if you did, how could you send everyone away and spirit her to the TARDIS without everyone knowing? Or if they didn't know, suspecting witchcraft when she recovers instantly from this?"

The Doctor looked desperate but also defeated. Donna felt terrible that she had to be the one to deliver this cold measure of common sense, but he needed to understand. "You can't do anything right now, Doctor, but wait." Helplessness did not suit the Doctor, and he looked at her angrily for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped.

"What if I just came with you and stayed with her? She might want to see me. I could help her, comfort her."

Donna laid a hand on his arm. "Trust me, Doctor. She barely knows any of us are there right now. She only hears Beatrice, I think, and she trusts her. Besides, you know Rosalind—she wouldn't want you to be distressed by seeing her in pain."

He nodded, his face wretched. Donna said, "I need to get back."

"Donna?" She turned to face him. "Promise me, if things get really bad, if she… Promise me that you'll come to find me. I can't lose her. I'll deal with the consequences later, but if this gets life-threatening, I'm taking her to the TARDIS."

"I will, Doctor." She gave him the most reassuring smile she could muster before venturing back into the hallway and toward Rosalind's room.

**Something was** wrong. She could tell. She swam upward through the exhausted oblivion into which she had fallen to find the room emptier than it had been for hours. By some mercy, the fire had been banked down and a slightly cooler breeze blew from the window, through which the evening sunlight shone. She closed her eyes again, almost savoring the fatigue of her body. It had taken so long. A morning, an afternoon, an unspeakable night, a morning again, and finally, in the afternoon, the baby had come. She had no memory of that moment. Long before, she had given up any attempt to direct what was happening and merely let her body do what it could. She had been infinitely grateful to fall unconscious.

Someone had moved her so that she lay on her side. Her hand lay next to her forehead, and she stared for a long moment at the inside of her wrist, trying to focus her mind, which felt fuzzy and oddly detached. Eventually she parted her lips to speak, to call for someone. A pitifully small noise emerged from her throat, which she realized must be ravaged from hours of screaming. She licked her dry lips, but her tongue was dry too and provided no relief. She was desperate for water. Moving was unthinkable, but surely someone would check on her soon?

As if in answer to an unspoken prayer the face of Dame Beatrice appeared in her field of vision. She held a cup and a spoon. Sitting down on a stool at the side of Rosalind's bed, the midwife slowly and delicately fed water into her mouth, one blissful and agonizing spoonful at a time. She wanted to grab the cup and drink deeply, but she remembered the retching she had done during her labor. Surely Beatrice was trying to prevent something similar from happening again by going slowly.

After the cup was empty, Beatrice set it down and took her hands. "You did well, my lady. You have a son."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes. Alive and well and with the wet-nurses. He seems strong. And he has a good latch."

She closed her eyes as a wave of relief overcame her. Tears squeezed out from behind her lids. She whispered hoarsely, "Has my husband seen him?"

"He has, my lady. The king has been here as well, but you were unconscious at the time. I sent him away, but he will want to return."

Her eyes fell shut again. She wanted nothing more than to see her son, and Philip and Donna, but she was so tired, so tired. She felt unable to do anything now but rest. Even lying very still, there was still so much pain, and she craved the release of sleep. "You must rest now, my lady," Beatrice said. She tried to open her eyes again, to thank her, but she could not, and instead drifted down again into sleep.

**Two hours** later she awoke again. This time, both Donna and Beatrice sat by her bedside. The room was dark, lit only by a candle. Donna whispered, "Hello, sweetheart. How do you feel?"

Rosalind attempted a smile. "Terrible." It was true. The pain in her abdomen had only worsened, and she felt shivery and feverish.

Dame Beatrice nodded. "It was a difficult birth, to be sure."

"But not the worst you have seen?"

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "You are here talking to us, my lady. It is not the worst."

Donna tutted, shocked by the morbid talk. "I've seen your boy, Rosalind. He's beautiful!"

"May I see him?"

"Enough time for that tomorrow, when you've rested," said Beatrice decisively. "He is being well cared for."

Donna looked disapproving but said nothing to contradict the midwife, instead asking Rosalind, "Shall I go and fetch Philip? I am under strict instructions to let him know the moment you wake up."

"Yes, please." Donna stood but before she could leave Rosalind said quietly, "Donna?"

Donna turned back to look at the girl on the bed. "Thank you, Donna. I cannot imagine a better friend than you have been to me."

Donna moved back to the side of the bed, leaned over, and placed a gentle kiss on Rosalind's forehead. "It's alright, love," she said. "I'll be right back."

She left. Rosalind knew that she had little time before Donna returned with Philip. She turned her eyes to Beatrice. "How am I really, Dame Beatrice?" The little woman appraised her for a long moment, and she repeated with impatience and steel in her voice, "How am I? The truth, if you please. I need to know."

Beatrice nodded crisply. "Your temperature is higher than I would like. You lost a great deal of blood and you are continuing to bleed heavily. It was a very long and draining labor. There is still a great risk of infection. I have done what I can to stop the bleeding, but it has not worked. If it does not stop soon, it will be a problem."

"Thank you." She took a deep breath. "Thank you for telling me the truth. It hurts very badly."

"I had to stitch you up, where you tore."

"Not there. Or rather, yes, but not only there. It's worse deep inside me. A terrible ache."

The midwife's brow furrowed with concern, which Rosalind did not miss. Then the old woman said, "Unfortunately, there is little I can do about internal injuries, my lady. I have left here," she gestured toward a cup sitting on the bedside table, "a goblet of wine mixed with medicine; it will lessen the pain, and it will make you sleep. The rest is up to your body and to God."

Rosalind nodded thoughtfully. Suddenly, she saw a way forward, a way she might accomplish what she knew she had to do. "I do not need it as of yet, Dame Beatrice. I can tolerate the pain. But I am grateful to have it here."

"It is a strong potion, my lady. You should drink about half the goblet as a dose."

Rosalind suddenly heard the sound of Donna's and Philip's voices as they returned. So little time. Beatrice moved to stand and leave her bedside. Rosalind summoned her strength and grasped the woman's hand where it lay on the sheet. The movement sent a spike of pain through her and she whimpered but her grip remained tenacious. "You will not tell the king what you told me," she whispered fiercely to Beatrice. "You will let me tell him. You will say that I am doing as well as can be expected after a difficult labor. Then you will leave me with him."

Beatrice stared at her, startled by the request and by the intensity of the queen's gaze, but finally nodded. Rosalind murmured her thanks just as Philip rushed into the room. The midwife stepped quickly back, head bowed, as Philip went down on his knees at the bedside, kissing Rosalind's hands, stroking her hair back from her temple. "My love. How are you? Have you seen our son?"

"I am well, my dearest. Tired and sore, but well. I have not yet seen him. Dame Beatrice feels I should rest tonight and see him in the morning."

Philip turned an inquiring gaze on Beatrice, who nodded mutely. He asked the midwife, "How is she?"

Beatrice paused, flicked her eyes to Rosalind and back again, and then said, "She is as well as can be expected, my lord, after such a long labor."

Rosalind closed her eyes in relief and gratitude. When she opened them again, Beatrice had vanished and Donna was at the door. "I'll leave you two in peace. Rosalind, I will see you in the morning."

"Yes. Thank you, Donna. Thank you for everything."

Donna smiled sweetly at her as she closed the door behind her.

Philip remained on his knees next to her bed. "I want to take you to my ship, love. I can stop your pain and heal any injuries you may have." He pressed his lips to her palms, one after the other. "Thank you, thank you. For my son, for everything. What you went through…I can't imagine."

She stroked his hair. "You are welcome, my love. What will you name him?"

"I thought you might wish to call him Robert?"

She choked back a small sob. "Oh, Philip. That is such a generous offer. But I think you should name your eldest son after your father."

"Louis?" He shrugged. "If you wish."

"The next one can be Robert."

"The next?" His eyes filled with tears at her generosity and bravery. "You'd do that again?"

"Well, not any time soon, I assure you." She smiled wanly.

"Oh God, I'm forgetting what I'm doing, sitting here talking. Let's get you to the ship."

For the second time in a matter of minutes, she gripped a hand to prevent the owner from moving. He looked at her inquiringly. She paused and gathered herself. "My love…" She closed her eyes. This was the moment. She had to convince him.

He asked, "What is it?"

She opened her eyes again. "I am tired, but so comfortable here. I am in no pain. Can we not rest here for a short while, together, and then you can take me to your ship?"

He hesitated. "How can you be in no pain, after all you went through?"

She put all her conviction into her gaze. "Dame Beatrice has given me medicines, and she has arranged me comfortably. I don't want to move right now. I just want to lay here with you. Would you do that?"

He looked doubtful but eventually said, "If you really want that, yes. But we should go to the ship before very long. I want to give you a check-up."

"Yes, my dearest. In an hour."

"All right."

She smiled at him lovingly. "Donna brought us a cup of wine to share, in order to celebrate." She made a small motion toward the bedside table. "I had a drink already. Will you finish it?"

He grinned back at her. "Of course." He reached for the cup and tilted it toward her. "To my wonderful wife, who has given me more joy than I thought possible in all the universes. And to our Louis."

She nodded and he drank deeply. He paused, looking momentarily distracted. "The wine has a strange flavor."

She felt a frisson of panic. "It is spiced wine, Donna said. Perhaps it is a spice you do not know?" He wrinkled his nose, and she said, "Finish it for me, love. For good luck."

He shrugged and drained the cup and she took a relieved breath. She then said, "Now, will you lay with me?"

"Behind you?"

"Yes. Just hold me."

He carefully climbed into the bed behind her. She bit down hard on her lip to keep from making noise, as each movement of the mattress caused terrible jolts of pain in her abdomen. She was sweating with the effort when he finally came to rest beside her.

"You feel warm, love."

"It's just the warmth of the room," she managed.

"Hmm." He lay for a few moments, then yawned. "I am tired. You must be absolutely exhausted."

She smiled. "I have slept for several hours, which you probably haven't. But yes, I am tired. Rest now, my love."

"I will, I think. I feel…very sleepy."

Behind her, over the course of about fifteen minutes, his breathing evened out and grew slow and heavy, at first from fatigue and then from the drug as it took effect. When she was sure he was deeply asleep she reached backward and dragged his arm over her, clutching his hand in her own, kissing his knuckles. She felt a sudden wave of panic, but she fought it down, reminding herself of what she knew had to be done.

She loved him. She so desperately wanted to stay with him, to see their son grow up, to grow old together. She wanted time. Time to savor this newfound joy in her life. She also wanted her pain to stop. She wanted to get better. All that could be accomplished if she let him take her to his ship. She had seen enough there to know that he had medicines undreamed of in her era. But. It was not that simple.

Although she did not understand everything Philip had told her two days before, she did understand that he had put himself in danger from too much meddling with history—that it had been wrong for him to do so. She knew that he would stop at nothing to save her, to keep her with him. To do that he would use technology and medicine that had no place here and now. And in so doing, he would no doubt do more damage to his own well-being, and perhaps to history itself, in ways that she could not fully comprehend. She was determined that this would not happen. What happened to her—at least for the hours that the drug would keep him safely in sleep—would be a decision made by an authority other than him. Fate, luck, God, the universe, whatever she or he would call it. It would not be him.

She closed her eyes resolutely against the growing pain inside her and the fear she felt. She was young and strong. She might still recover. She laced her fingers through those of her husband and drew his hand to rest against her heart. Then she let the exhaustion suck her down again into darkness and rest.

**Donna wended** her way toward Rosalind's chamber late the next morning. She had returned to her own room and fallen into the deepest sleep she could remember. It had been a long and draining two days for her as well. She woke with the sun high in the sky and stretched luxuriantly, feeling the soreness of her muscles. With great relief she stripped off her filthy dress, in which she had fallen asleep, washed and put on fresh clothes. She brushed and arranged her hair. Then, feeling cheerful and refreshed, she went to check on her friend's progress. She wanted to be there when they brought baby Louis to meet his mother.

She found a scene of confusion outside the door. Several female servants stood there, trays covered by cloths in their hands, looking indecisive and flustered. "What is the matter?" Donna asked.

The girls looked at each other and then one piped up, "The king went in hours and hours ago. Last night. We don't want to disturb them, but we have food and drink for them to break their fast. We thought we would just leave the trays here, but then we heard a cry, just a few minutes ago. We didn't know what to do."

Donna's heart began to beat faster. "A cry? The queen?"

"It sounded like the king, my lady."

Donna stepped to the door and knocked. She called, "Rosalind? Philip?" There was no answer. She waved the servant girls away, waited until they turned the corner of the hallway, and then eased open the door.

After a few steps, the bed came into view. The Doctor sat on it, with Rosalind gathered into his lap, his face invisible in her hair. Even at a distance Donna could see him shaking, although he made no noise.

She whispered, "Philip?" When he did not move, she tried again. "Doctor?" As she took a step closer to the bed, she suddenly realized that his hands, clutched around his wife, were covered in blood. She clapped her hand over her mouth when she saw the sheets around Rosalind were soaked with red.

"Oh God," she cried. "What happened?"

Now he raised his head and met her eyes. He was not crying, but his face was gray and contorted, his eyes fathomless. He whispered, "I fell asleep, Donna. I fell asleep, and she left me."


	20. Chapter 20: Epilogue

**Chapter 20: Epilogue**

**When you** travel with the Doctor, you usually arrive at your destination. Eventually. But the journey is often quite different than you expect. Donna had this thought as she and the Doctor sat at a café on the Île Saint-Louis in the late afternoon sunlight of a beautiful autumn day. Donna sipped at a café crème while the Doctor stirred his hot chocolate with single-minded intensity but never actually lifted the cup to his lips. Around them, conversations in French buzzed and swooped. They were in Paris, in the year 2008. History had been restored and all the familiar monuments were in place. They had done the job they had set out to do when they left here all those months ago. But that victory, if such it was, rang hollow because they had lost so much.

After Rosalind's death things had moved with dizzying speed. It had been Donna who gently eased Rosalind out of the Doctor's grip, who had called the servants and had the body taken away. She had washed his blood-stained hands as he sat in a near catatonic state. Then she had simply sat with him, waiting for him to come around. After an hour, when she had genuinely come to fear that he might not speak again, he had taken a deep breath, looked at her, and said, "I think it is time for us to go." After that, the Doctor could not be stopped, could not wait to be gone. That very night, as Rosalind's body lay in state in the palace chapel, he had infused the real Philip with his memories and returned him to his own bed. He had then told Donna curtly to prepare to leave within the hour. Donna had taken one last turn around her room but decided she wanted nothing from it. Then she went and sat in Rosalind's chamber. This had been where she had spent most of her time, with her friend. The bed had been stripped and the mattress and sheets, all irrevocably stained with blood, carried out of the palace and burned. She perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed frame and allowed herself to weep for a few minutes before joining the Doctor on the TARDIS. With a brief glance at her, he had flung them into the vortex without a word.

After that, he had simply vanished. For more than two weeks, she had seen nothing of him. This was neither surprising to her nor particularly upsetting. Neither of them, she knew, was ready to talk about what had happened. She relished the time alone to think about her friend and to mull over all that she had been through. The TARDIS, of course, saw to all her physical needs and comforts.

Then suddenly, one morning, there he was, in the console room. At some point he must have used the chameleon arch, because his familiar form had returned. He was back in his brown suit, crouched over the screens, glasses on, hair wild. It was almost as if nothing had occurred, as if it had all been a terrible dream. Almost. To her trained eye, he looked thinner—if that were possible—and paler and older, and there was a universe of sadness in his face and eyes. He said to her, without looking up from the console, "We should go to Paris, in your time, to check on how things have turned out." She made a soft noise of consent and laid her hand over his. He looked in her eyes for a short moment, smiled the most joyless of smiles, and then removed his hand and set the coordinates.

Now, as she sat across from him, she gathered her courage. They had not yet spoken about Rosalind's death, but there were so many things she did not understand and wanted to know. Gently she asked, "What happened, Doctor? To Rosalind?"

He flinched almost imperceptibly at the sound of her name, and then he looked up. "She had a hemorrhage. Probably an infection too. All as a result of the birth. You know that."

"But…" She didn't know how to ask the question; didn't want him to feel she was blaming him.

"Why didn't I save her?" He laughed bitterly. "The wine was drugged."

"What?"

"The wine on her bedside table was full of some kind of crude painkiller, probably an opiate. Dame Beatrice left it for her, for her pain. I cornered her after Rosalind died and she swore that she had clearly told Rosalind that it was painkiller, that it would make her sleep, and only to drink a small dose of it at a time. She was telling the truth, it was clear. But Rosalind told me it was celebratory wine that you had brought for us to toast Louis's birth. She asked me to drink it all. I thought it tasted strange, but I wasn't paying close attention."

"But why? Why would she do that?"

He shook his head and put down his spoon on the saucer with a vicious clatter. "I should have realized what she was doing. She was so concerned, the day before, about the idea that I was harming myself, threatening myself, by changing the timeline. I think she didn't want to let me tinker any more by healing her with Time Lord medicine. She wanted things to take their natural course. She took me out of the equation."

Donna said decisively, "She would never have killed herself."

"No! Of course not. But she would have been willing to take a chance on her own life, if she thought doing so would help me."

Donna nodded. He was right. That was exactly the sort of thing Rosalind would have done. Donna pulled the absurdly tiny napkin out from under her coffee cup and dabbed at her eyes. He said, "I just wish she hadn't done it. I can't believe she was able to trick me like that, that I didn't see what she was doing and stop her."

"You sacrifice your own interests all the time for others, Doctor. Sometimes people who love you will do the same for you."

He reached out and grasped her hand, holding on tightly. After a moment she said, "Poor Philip. To wake up and deal with the aftermath of all that, having not had the joy of it before."

She expected the Doctor might be angry with her for saying that, might snap at her, but he simply nodded. "You're right. Actually, I softened things a bit for him when I transferred in my memories. I made him love her, of course, but not quite as much as I did. That would have been cruel."

"You didn't take memories away from him, did you?"

"No, Donna. No. I wouldn't have done that. But neither did I put the full force of my emotions into him."

"I see." She paused. "What will we do now?"

"Us? Oh, you know. Same old life, last of the Time Lords and his brilliant companion. Adventures across time and space."

She winced at the forced cheer in his voice. "Doctor…what about Rose?"

He lifted his eyebrows. "What about her?"

"What if she comes back? What will it mean for you?"

"Donna, that's…"

"Before you tell me it's impossible, Doctor, I should mention that I don't believe in that word anymore, when it comes to your life."

He sighed and gave her a wan smile. "Quite right, too." He ran his hands over his face and up through his hair, clearly gathering his thoughts. "When I first met Rosalind, I thought maybe she could be some sort of…solace to me, for losing Rose?" Donna raised an eyebrow but before she could speak he held up his hand and said, "Yes, I know. Self-centered, right? But that's what I thought. But after…after I fell in love with Rosalind, I wondered if maybe Rose was really leading me to Rosalind. After all, if she had not looked like Rose, I'm not sure I would have ever looked twice at her."

"We never figured out, did we, if she was Rose's ancestor, or how exactly they were connected?"

He shook his head. "I just don't know. I don't think I ever will. But so much seemed to connect them. Bad Wolf, and everything else."

"Yes, I heard you say that, but I never fully understood. What was Bad Wolf?"

"When I was in my ninth body, Rose and I kept seeing that phrase everywhere. Like it was following us. It turned out to be a signal that Rose had sent to herself." Donna scrunched her face in concentration, trying to understand, and he chuckled. "It's complicated. But the point is, it never really made sense. Why would Rose, a shop girl from London, choose the phrase "Bad Wolf" as a signal? But for Rosalind, it made perfect sense. The rebellious daughter of the earl of Northumberland, whose symbol was the black wolf." He sighed. "But I don't pretend to understand exactly how it worked or how everything was connected."

Donna smiled. "I guess you don't know everything, after all."

"Oh, Donna. The longer you stay with me, the more you will see that it's rare that I know very much at all." After a moment, his voice thick with emotion, he burst out, "If only I had listened to you and left her in Northumberland. She could have lived to a ripe old age."

"Or she could have died giving birth to the child of some horrible old man that her father had married her to."

He shook his head, his jaw clenched. Donna grasped his hand. "Doctor, I know I disagreed with a lot of what you did. But listen…if I die tomorrow, you might say that if I had never left Chiswick, I would still be alive. But it's not always about the length of our lives, Doctor, as much as it is about how we live. I wouldn't give up traveling with you for the world, even if it means I don't live as long. And I think…no, I know that Rosalind felt the same way."

He was silent for a long time, and then, returning to another train of thought, he said, "If I ever see Rose again—unlikely, but let's just say it is possible—if I ever did, I would be so delighted to see her. But…it would be difficult too. She would remind me so much of Rosalind, but she could never replace her. It wouldn't be fair to Rose to keep her with me, if she thought that things could be the same between us."

He looked down at his cup with distaste. "Donna, are you ready? We should go." He adopted an air of excitement, although it rang hollow in both their ears. "There's a Chinese market I thought I might take you to. Exotic foods, silk dresses, hustle and bustle!"

She smiled gently. "Yes, Doctor, whatever you want. Shopping would be nice. A distraction. But can you give me a few hours before we go?"

He frowned, clearly eager to put Paris behind him. "Why?"

Donna looked down. "Rosalind and I took a walk, just a few weeks before…" She paused and then cleared her throat. "We went on an outing to the Bois de Boulogne and walked in the parkland. Very little else of our Paris is still here, but I thought I might return there for a visit. Just to walk a bit and…say one last goodbye."

He relented immediately. "Of course. Take your time. I'll wait for you in the TARDIS, alright?" She nodded and stood, gathering her things. She paused to drop a kiss on the top of his head, before disappearing in the direction of the Metro.

The Doctor watched her go, so grateful for her presence and her friendship, but also relieved that she was gone. It was inevitable and natural that she was going to want to talk about Rosalind, but he didn't think he could stand much more of it. The physical pain and emotional trauma were astonishing, every time he thought of her or heard her spoken of. He could not keep Donna with him if she continued to press him about Rosalind. He could not lightly exchange anecdotes about her, or dwell on what might have been. It was simply too painful.

And so he had resolved to wipe Donna's memory of their French adventure. He knew—or at least he thought—that if that were the price of staying with him, of continuing their travels, that she would pay it. But he did not intend to ask. He ran a hand over his face. It was a repulsive thing to do. It was not noble, or strong, or fair. But he needed to do it. Perhaps, he thought, trying to justify his impulse, it was kinder to spare Donna this pain, as he had done for the real Philip. No, he told himself, look it in the face. He was doing this to spare himself. No other reason.

He stood up, verified that Donna had paid the bill before she left, and then wandered away from the café. Since he had a few hours, he was going to make another stop, one he had debated making, but now seemed unavoidable. And indeed, he wanted to go, even if it would be difficult. This was another thing to add to the list of his sins: he probably ought to have told Donna about the place, or even brought her along. But that, too, was something he could not manage. He had placed one last thought in Philip's sleeping mind before he had left him; he wanted to be alone to check if the king had remembered, had listened.

He crossed the bridge over the Seine and approached Notre-Dame from the east. He entered the first door he came to on the north side, known as the Porte Rouge. Above the door was a sculptural frieze that showed King Louis IX. He paused for a moment to marvel that that celebrated king was the son of the baby boy that he had held in his arms for a few minutes on that final night. He entered the nave and turned left, heading into the apse. Here, memory began to assault him, making his eyes sting. He could see Rosalind, twirling in the light thrown from the windows. The same light fell on him now; this was not surprising, given that it was almost the same time of year. He could hear her voice, telling him that she loved him for the first time. He swallowed hard and pressed on, turning into one of the small chapels in the apse. And there she was. He laughed even as his eyes overflowed. Philip had done it.

He approached the tomb slowly, pausing to glance at the placard thoughtfully placed for the benefit of tourists. "Rosalind of Northumberland, queen of France, 1200-1201. Died while giving birth to the future Louis VIII." A brief enough epitaph. A flat statement of her existence, which carried none of her unique presence with it. Gathering his courage, he turned to look at the effigy. He could not stifle the small whimper that passed his lips at the sight of her; luckily, no other visitors seemed inclined to turn into this small side chapel. His knees feeling weak, he leaned against the stone pillar by her head and studied her.

The artist had had his limitations, no doubt. But it was not bad. He had captured the curve of the cheek, the fullness of the mouth, the shape of the nose. Her eyes were closed, which was just as well, as no artist could have caught that ineffable expression. What pleased him most was that Philip had placed it exactly where he had suggested, in a spot along the wall bathed in colored light from the windows. "In the light, now and for all time, my love," he whispered, placing his cool hand over her cold marble one.

He reached into the pocket of his long coat and pulled out a small book, a manuscript with a cover in fine-tooled green leather. "I took it from him, Rosalind. I know you probably wouldn't like that, but it is all I have of you. He had your son." He paged through the book, savoring the sight of her handwriting and the memory of the morning after their marriage, when she had given it to him. He sighed and closed it, slipping it lovingly back into his pocket, where he felt its comforting weight against his leg. He turned to her effigy a final time. He whispered, "Thank you, my love. I wish that you had not left me. You were right, though. I would have done almost anything for more time with you. But I feel such gratitude for the time we had, for all you gave me."

He took one last look upward, his eyes dazzled by a blaze of color. Then he turned and walked away, through the darkness of the church into the bustle of the city, returning to his ship to await his companion.

_**Fin**_


End file.
